Drenched
by imsanehonest
Summary: House enjoys the company of a patient, obviously signaling the apocalypse, Wilson is getting a divorce, Chase is falling head over heels, Foreman's thinking of leaving the team and Cameron's sister has cancer. At least it's not raining. Yet.
1. A Stranger's Coat Pocket, pt one

**Drenched**

**Summary**: House enjoys the company of a patient- obviously signaling the apocalypse, Wilson is getting a divorce, Chase is falling head over heals, Foreman's thinking of leaving the team and Cameron's sister has cancer. At least it's not raining. Yet.

**Disclaimer**: Once upon a time there was a fanfic writer who loved House more than was strictly healthy, and in order to stifle this love, she wrote her stories. One day she forgot to put a disclaimer on one of these tales. She was then sued for all she was worth and had to live the rest of her days in a box. I don't want this to happen to me. –grin- Anything you recognize belongs to Fox and David Shore, and not to me. -sad sigh- The poem "It Doesn't Get Much Better Than This" belongs to Nicole Burdette. (See Author's Note. Er, the second one, that is.)

**Author's Note**: My one-shot, "Her Name Was", is actually a prequel of sorts to this, much longer, story. Please note that it was written before the past two episodes, so there will be some changes (expressed in this chapter) to the back-story I set up. This story is cannon-compatible up to "Distractions". Please see the end of the chapter for the complete AN.

As for now, enjoy!

---

**Chapter One: A Stranger's Coat Pocket, Part One**

_I want to be a lost poem in a stranger's coat pocket that conveys the importance of you  
To assure you of my desires  
To assure you of my dreams.  
I want all the possibilities of you in writing.  
-Nicole Burdette _

---

He groaned as he sat up, resisting the urge the make sure that his shoulder was, in fact, still in his socket, and rubbing his eyes with his hands in a futile attempt to wake himself up. He knew it would be useless without coffee, or perhaps a direct injection of caffeine. Either would do nicely.

Unfortunately, upon waking Wilson realized that coffee would be a hard commodity to come by, seeing as how one Gregory House treated his beans with the reference most saved only for family heirlooms. House always hid his stash of ground coffee, knowing that his friend would happily steal his supply if left out in the open.

This meant two things. First, that Wilson would have to survive the morning without his coffee. Second, that he was at House's apartment after spending the night on his God-awful couch, hence the doubtful state of his joint. The question was why.

Nothing immediate came to mind.

Bad sign.

He looked down at Greg's coffee table to see scattered cigar butts, various empty bottles of hard liquor and no less than a dozen beer bottles. The heavy stuff was House's; the beers were his (to quote, "Drinking beer is like Christian Rock. Technically, it's still rock, but really, it lacks the tattoos and cursing that make good music great... Or bad music great, for that matter.").

Wilson rarely drank, and when he did it was only in times of ultimate desperation, when ignoring the problems just wasn't going to cut it. Alcohol seemed to be his most consoling of vices, the bottoms of the bottles offering him more comfort than most people could manage. And even then, desperate for something to make him forget, he kept his drinking in check, limiting himself to beers instead of tequila, only one more drink when he still felt like he needed five.

He eyed the empty bottles suspiciously. Maybe he had gone a bit overboard last night though. He certainly felt fuzzier than usual, not even able to remember what had brought him to this state of desperation.

He continued the survey of his surroundings until he caught a glint of gold amongst the scattered remains of the night before.

Oh.

He picked up his wedding ring from the table and held it in between his hands, twisting it with his fingers and catching the light with the band for several moments before he shook himself. He remembered now.

Julie. The dinner. The talk. The look. Him leaving. House at the door. Beers and baseball, the cure-alls to life's misfortunes.

He put the ring in his pant pocket and rubbed his neck, lowering his head as he let out a sigh. It had been one of those nights then.

He still felt like an odd combination of hero and coward. He knew leaving was the right thing to do, that neither he nor Julie wanted one another in the way they should. But nonetheless it felt wrong, running away. Abandoning Julie, causing her pain. It was the guilt, more than anything else, that drew him to House's door. He could have gone to his office, spent the night in that refuge instead of this one. But his office offered no distractions from his shame. So instead, he opted for the sarcastic companionship of his best friend, and enough alcohol to knock out a small horse.

It didn't make him feel better, but it allowed him to forget, for a while. Just long enough so he didn't go back, apologizing, begging on hands and knees, anything to take back the hurt he caused.

They always say that things will look better in the morning, but Wilson himself had to question that sentiment. The guilt from yesterday hadn't disappeared over night, and now he had the added bonus of a pounding headache.

He resisted the urge to glare at the empty beer bottles and instead settled for muttering, "Et tu, Brute?" under his breath.

Standing up slowly, Wilson stretched and looked down at his clothes, rubbing down the fabric in hopes that it would flatten. He had an extra suite in his office, but he did have to travel through the hospital first before he got there. Best to look somewhat professional. Or at least not like a bum.

Continuing, in vain, to attempt to make the cloth obey him, he noticed a small note on the coffee table. Nervous, Wilson stopped with the rubbing and picked up the letter, turning on his internal House-translator.

_BW _(Boy Wonder),

_I have gone to my own personal corner of hell. _(I went to the hospital.)_ I invite you to join me there at some point before eight, under threat of the wrath of Satan. _(Be there by eight or else I will rat you out and tell Cuddy.) _If you are late, know that I plan to create an explanation involving a rubber duck, handcuffs, and spandex. _(No translation needed, unfortunately.)_ You already know that my imagination has no bounds._ (Don't think I won't do it.)

_Looking forward to humiliating you and ruining your professional career forever,_

_-LT _(Limping Twerp)

"What he does, not what he says," Wilson chanted as he frantically ran around House's living room, (an action that, had he been able to see it, would have reminded him of a chicken that recently had its head chopped off) finding his tie where he had tossed it over a chair.

He forced himself to be as calm as possible, remembering House letting him in at eleven last night, along with countless other evenings in the past. "What he does, not what he says," he had his tie on and was now finding his wallet, his keys, the clock he brought for the nights he spent away from home, memories of the way Greg purposefully avoided asking questions Wilson didn't want to answer running through his head, how House kept the beer and witty commentary on a constant flow, how he hadn't woken Wilson when he left the apartment this morning.

"What he does-" He looked down at the alarm clock he had placed on the coffee table, set to wake him at 6:30, to see that it was 7:48, and that it had been turned off. And not by Wilson.

He sighed heavily as he grabbed his jacket and ran out the apartment, snatching the extra key from the kitchen counter and locking the door on his way out... But only after convincing himself that he was above leaving it unlocked just so House's stereo system could be stolen.

---

Julie hated Thursdays more than any other day of the week.

They were conference days, big-deal days. Everything important that ever happened during the week happened on Thursdays, because no one liked Wednesdays and she had yet to find a human being who could work properly on a Friday. This meant that every seven days, without fail, she would have a weighty matter to greet her upon entering her office.

This time, it was the new China deal they were setting up. One of the new and upcoming manufacturing companies in the country wanted to use one of Jonathan Pratt's computer chips in their latest model of motorcycle, allowing for innovative advancements of GPS systems. Julie, of course, knew this would be a fantastic move for the company, China being the fastest developing country in the world, quickly industrializing towards more mechanically driven forms of transportation, and was nearly pounding her fist in irritation at her boss's reluctance.

Jonathan was one of the rare innovators who wanted to be involved in every aspect of his work. The development, marketing and distribution of it. For eight years he had been in charge of his small empire, overseeing virtually every aspect of the chip's (and its newer models) management. And yet, he had never sold overseas, and was hesitant to do so now.

Julie sighed as she entered the elevator, headed for the top floor of her building, mentally preparing herself for the long-distance phone meeting between Mr. Pratt and the presidents of the company in China. Despite her preparations and the powerful and respected presence she brought with her whenever she worked, the brief-case in hand, power suite she had on, the material for the upcoming meeting memorized, she doubted the conference would go well. It seemed to be a trend of her life lately.

She shook herself, bringing her emotions under control. James had left her a week and a half ago. She had moved all of her things from their apartment last Thursday. She had sent him the divorce papers last night.

These were facts she could deal with.

That she had never loved him, and that he had never loved her, she couldn't.

She looked down at the band on her left-ring finger, letting the small diamond twinkle in the florescent lighting of the elevator as it continued its upward journey.

Julie couldn't take it off. If she did, she would have to face the truth. That she was alone again, that she had never loved her husband and that she was happier without him.

Because these were truths that were too painful to think on. The thought that she had spent five years of her life with a man for whom she felt nothing save for detached affection, a love by proximity that was no real love at all. And that the result of all this pretending was a sparkling ring and the respect of her family and coworkers. Nothing more, nothing less.

The elevator came to a stop and Julie had a moment of vertigo, reaching out blindly to a wall as the world started spinning in front of her. She heard a ding up ahead and pushed off from the wall, determined to make it to the conference room as her balance and sight slowly began to return to normal.

"Good morning Mrs. Wilson!" The frightfully cheerful voice of Audrey, her secretary.

"Morning Audrey," she said as brightly as she could as she blinked repeatedly and covered her nose with her hand. "What is that smell?"

"New paint job, Ma'am. Workers came and did it last night."

She looked at the walls for the first time. Green. She scowled. She hated green.

"Couldn't it have waited until the weekend?"

"I suppose not, Mrs. Wilson. Nobody works on the weekends, and nobody likes working on Fridays, and since the meeting was today and no one knows how long it will last..."

"Thursday was out."

"Exactly." Audrey had a smile so big that Julie thought she could see her molars.

"I see. Is Mr. Pratt in yet?"

"No, not yet. But he called and said to meet him in the room and that he would be in shortly, translator in tow."

"Thank you Audrey." And with that she quickly stepped into the conference room, closing the door behind her with an audible click, only feeling vaguely guilty about shutting it in Audrey's face. Being around someone so violently happy was exhausting, especially when one wasn't feeling as fantastic themselves.

Making her way around the table to one of the three chairs set up, she did her best to clear her head, which was difficult seeing as how the overpowering paint odor from this room seemed to be magnified by the lack of windows. It was distracting, but she would be damned if she would let it affect her work. The paint or her husband. Ex-husband.

Her work was her life. If she failed at this, she failed at everything important to her that was left.

Sitting down, Julie opened up her briefcase, taking out statistics, predictions and figures, determined to make the deal work.

Minutes later Mr. Pratt walked into the room, translator on his heals. He was dressed in a nice suite, expensive but not flashy, with an unremarkable tie and nice black shoes. In his hand he carried a large tray of ornately wrapped candies. "From the presidents," he said as he set the treats in front of Julie, panting slightly with a smile on his face. "I think they're trying to buy us off."

"Is it working?" Julie asked as she picked up one of the treats and started unwrapping it. She was famished.

Jonathon coughed, "Oh yeah. Win over the sweet tooth and you've got me," he gestured behind him as he coughed into his palm. "This is Lee, our translator." He began hacking again, turning his back on his two employees as he continued to cough.

Julie shook hands with Lee, "Are you ready for this? It's going to be tough, talking for all four of us."

Lee smiled. "I should be fine. I've been translating for-"

He broke off mid sentence when they heard a crash behind them. Julie turned around quickly to see Pratt on kneeling on the ground, hand resting on a knocked over chair, body hunched over and racked with coughing. Running over to him, she arrived just as he fell over onto the ground, breathing heavily, hand clenched to his chest.

"Mr. Pratt," Julie said frantically, getting onto the ground herself, "Mr. Pratt, what's wrong?" She turned him over on his back, looking at his face and seeing an ugly red mark overtaking his entire left cheek, spreading quickly downwards, breaking out into hives as she watched, his eyes wide, taking in gasping gulps of air.

"Lee, get Audrey. Call an ambulance. Now!"

---

"You turned off my alarm again."

"Did I? Wow. Guess my sleep-walking's getting worse. Although I'm mildly impressed with my ability to irritate you even while unconscious."

"House, I've been sleeping on your couch for over a week. Every morning you have turned off my alarm just to make me late to work. It was funny the first day, I admit. The note was amusing, witty even. I know that you mentally scarred Cuddy and your team with the story you told. But isn't it all a little old by now?"

"Nope. Still amusing me."

Wilson sighed as he and House exited the elevator, on their way to the clinic. House was in his typical shirt-jacket combo, cane in tow, and Wilson was snug in his suite, tie and lab coat. The younger doctor had found his friend and hauled him out of his office, knowing that his telling House to be a doctor would be more effective than Cuddy's efforts.

"Do we need to go over the concept of friendship again? Believe it or not it is not the intense desire to annoy someone beyond all reason."

"But that's what it said in Webster's!"

"Um-hm. And under 'house' it says 'obnoxious diagnostician who has the ego the size of a walrus'."

"Good ol' Webster... Never wrong."

"Why is it so easy for you to frustrate me and impossible for me to frustrate you?"

"You mean intentionally?"

Wilson gave him an exasperated stare.

"I have talent... You're just a wannabe."

They were feet away from the clinic when House cocked his head up slightly, like a dog catching a sent in the wind. A faint, _tap-taptap-taptap-tap_, could be heard in the distance and House's eyes widened, "It comes!" he said near frantically as he turned around mid stride and limped right back to the elevator they had just left.

"If you don't give her any tips I'll let you wake up on time tomorrow," House murmured out of the corner of his mouth as he pressed the 'up' button repeatedly.

Wilson blinked, confused until he saw Cuddy striding down the hallway, slightly low-cut top blouse and jacket on, a frown on her face.

House quickly hobbled into the elevator as soon as it opened.

"Is he trying to outrun me again?" She asked with a sigh as House gave a little wave as the elevator door dinged closed.

"It appears so. Why were you looking for him? I was actually getting him to go to the clinic, a modern day miracle as far as I'm concerned."

"I get him to go to the clinic all the time. It's not that difficult."

"Only because you can threaten his livelihood."

Cuddy shot him an annoyed look.

"Okay, I know it's not like turning water into wine or anything, but for a lowly oncologist, still pretty impressive considering the subject."

"True," Cuddy said with a small smile as she started down the elevator.

No snappy comeback? Wilson looked at his boss intently, "Lisa is everything alright?"

She gave him her real smile then, "Don't worry James, I'm fine. Just not looking forward to convincing House that he should take this case. It is disgustingly average, but he's the biggest name here so he has to take it. Where do you think he's going to be holed up this time so I can properly torture him with it?"

Wilson wasn't entirely sure he believed her, but he let the thought pass. Lisa was no easy lock to break, and he wasn't up to the challenge of trying to do so today. In the state he was in, he would likely do more harm than good, too tired and too emotionally strained to handle a person with the complexities that Cuddy kept hidden.

Instead he contemplated his options. Pay back or sparing his reputation from House's twisted imagination. "I'm going with the pediatrics department lounge. He really does like that jello. Reminds him of his childhood and all. Plus TiVo."

"Ten says he'll be in the little boy's room."

"You're on." Pay back was so much more satisfying.

---

He heard the ominous tapping again.

That tap meant his doom, he knew it. When he was at the fiery gates he wouldn't hear the voice of the devil, but instead the persistent tapping of Lisa Cuddy's shoes, signaling him towards and eternity of clinic duty.

Now that would be hell.

An infinite span of being burned in the fires of the underworld he could take, but give him more than two hours of clinic duty and he would be sobbing like a baby.

Or at least it felt like he would sometimes. Maybe he should try it. Might inspire some pity, although one would've hoped that the cane and limp would have covered it. No one respected cripples any more.

He heard a dignified cough behind him and sighed, setting down his jello, standing and turning to face his nemesis.

"Wilson's going to be in late tomorrow," he said as he limped into his 'battle stance', cane in hand, legs slightly apart, and ready to bolt should he feel the need. Granted, a slow bolt. "Very late."

"And will be ten dollars richer. Besides, making him sleep more is hardly something I'll discourage. He doesn't look well."

"Concerned for our Jimmy's welfare?"

"Should I be?"

"Look at his left ring-finger and ask me again."

Cuddy gasped. "No,"

"Yep. Hasn't told me anything, of course. Wouldn't be the Wonder Boy way..." But House knew, even without being told. Perhaps in spite of it, because he was certain that Wilson would rather swallow nails than have his oldest friend aware of his personal pain. And, really, the diagnostician couldn't blame him. House was not the person people should turn to during times of strife, both for their sake and his own.

But Wilson was different than everyone else. Not that House was any more eager to listen to Jimmy pour out his heart and soul than the rest of the population, but that did not mean that the gruff doctor didn't want to, didn't need to, help. Because Wilson had saved him twice already, and House needed some way to repay his debt.

The first time, Wilson did his best to halt the downward spiral altogether. His friend did not completely succeed. There were afternoons when upon Wilson's departure to the hospital, House would down more of the pills than needed, when he would drink through the scotch bottles. They made him forget, distracted him from what his life had become, from being alone. Despite these small failures, Wilson had saved his life. Those afternoons had been far fewer than they could have been, with his friend a constant, irritating, pressing, demanding presence that kept him occupied, prevented him from dwelling. From seeking distractions.

As for the second time, House had already fallen into the depths of the pit and Wilson pulled him back out.

Oh, everyone had tried to stop it. He couldn't fail to acknowledge that. Chase was the first of his observant little minions to see what was happening, able to recognize the addiction growing before anyone else could have. After all, Chase had seen a variation of it before and was only waiting for House to display the symptoms of a true dependency. He had quickly told the other ducklings, who then went to Wilson. Then they plotted.

Cameron found more patients for the team than ever before, causing them to often take on two cases at once. She scheduled House to watch lectures by other diagnosticians, made him go to a few, if with nothing else than with the promise that he could ruthlessly humiliate them during their presentations.

Chase argued. Every point, every diagnosis. Coming from Chase, the duckling who supported House more thoroughly than any other, the questions were given more validity, carried more weight. He made House justify his every action, made him work that much harder; focus that much more on his work.

Foreman stole his Vicodin. Slipped it from his pocket during the day and disposed of it, gave it to Wilson or hid it. House had no proof, but he knew. Knew it in the way Foreman wouldn't look at him when House put his hand in his pocket and no reassuring rattle met his fingers. Knew it in the way that Foreman never offered him any more pills, even when the tremors made it impossible for him to write on the squeaky board and the perspiration from the cold-sweats got into his eyes.

Cuddy forced him to the clinic more often. She would find him in the most remote corners of the hospital and hand him files, herding him back to his other doctoral obligations.

And Wilson did everything else. Every spare moment the oncologist had was spent shadowing House. Watching his every move, judging his every action. Unlike his other colleagues, Wilson confronted the matter of House's addiction head on. Took part in the verbal battles that left both men weary when they were through, demanded explanations for the way House was allowing himself to deteriorate.

None of it worked. Wilson had patients of his own and couldn't follow House constantly, and Greg took full advantage of the times he was left without supervision. Even though none of the doctors he worked with wrote his prescriptions, House harassed obscure doctors around the hospital until they allowed him to get his pills, walking in on surgeries and tests until someone gave in to his demands. He took to keeping extra Vicodin bottles around, creating hiding places and putting them under lock and key. He stopped answering Chase's questions. Stopped arguing with Wilson. Stopped working in the clinic. And for two days stopped showing up to work at all.

On the second night Wilson came to his apartment.

House had been sleeping, content to take his pills and pass out rather than take the pills and think about her.

He awoke to a crash and sat up in his bed instantly, reaching for his cane and pill bottle.

Wilson strode into the bedroom and gave House a look of utter disgust before snatching the pills from his hand. House, too startled to prevent the action, simply let it happen.

"You can either tell me where your other bottles are or I'll find them for myself." There was a cold efficiency in his tone, an effect magnified by the white lab coat he still had on. A sort of emotional detachment ruled his voice, tempered with knowledge of what was necessary that caused House to look at his friend in a new light. Wilson had been furious in their arguments, desperate. Now he carried a conviction surpassing any anger he had presented in the past.

House had said nothing, and Wilson hadn't bothered making him. House saw his friend taking survey of his appearance, no doubt noting the stubble that had turned to a beard, the dirty rumpled clothes, the stench of alcohol that seemed to radiate from him.

"I don't care how desperate you are to make yourself miserable," Wilson had said as he began searching the room, starting with his dressier and completely deshelfing it, throwing out clothes carelessly as he searched, "I won't let you do this to yourself."

House began to stand up. "You are not my nanny-"

Wilson turned. "Sit down." Perhaps it was the cold look being sent his way, but House obeyed. "You love two things in this world House," Greg thought he could feel Wilson's stare boring into his head. "And you've already pushed one away. The only thing you have left is your job, and not only is it the sole thing that can keep you content, dare I say happy, but it also allows you to save dozens of lives, good lives, every year.

"For their sake as much as yours I'm stopping you from destroying yourself for momentary distractions." Wilson went back to his riffling, talking as he worked. "You and I are taking a break. One month, two months, three. Doesn't matter. Neither of us has used any of our vacation time for years. Your team and Julie think that we've gone to a series of conventions overseas. The team will likely discover the truth shortly, but you can deal with that later. Cuddy knows what's really happening and will help if I ask for it. And I may need to, depending on the amount of food you have in the fridge."

Wilson went to the next shelf, pocketing a Vicodin bottle as he heard it rattle. "You are going to detox House. Again. For a month or more you are going to function without the drug in your system. After I feel that the amount of time has been suitable, I will give you back the pills, and you can do with them what you'd like. Until then, I am not your friend."

And he hadn't been.

First Wilson found all of the stash bottles House had kept around the apartment and had flushed them down the toilette. Then he hired a man to replace the door and lock he had destroyed to get in, certain to make himself a spare-key. He closed all of the blinds and curtains in the space, knowing that soon House would not be able to tolerate harsh light without pain. He took stock of the fridge and called Cuddy for supplies.

All of this he did with House screaming at him, trying to force him out, to make him leave. It didn't work. When House tried to leave himself, Wilson had grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and forced him back into the room, pissing off House enough to punch his friend in the face as he stumbled to regain his footing. Wilson had simply wiped the blood from his lip and stood his ground. Eventually Wilson took his cane from him.

House didn't like that. It made him vulnerable, made him feel like a cripple. There's a difference between being a cripple and feeling like one. To feel crippled is infinitely worse than being it.

And it meant that he couldn't walk. All the Vicodin in the world couldn't bring that ability back to him. So House kept screaming from his living room chair, and Wilson continued to ignore him.

That was how Doctor Gregory House spent the first day of his second period of detox.

The next was when the true trouble began.

House remembered every detail. The intense pain in his leg, the nausea, the trembling that prevented him from sleeping, the sweat that drenched every inch of him. Wilson had moved him from his chair into his bedroom, sitting by the bed the entire night, not saying a word. Every time House would ask for water he would get it. He replaced the bowl at the side of the bed without asking. Every few hours he would get a damp rag and place it on House's forehead, providing some sort of relief even as House tried to push it away.

He begged that day. Begged for the Vicodin. Begged for Wilson to kill him. Begged his friend to make the pain stop; please please just make it stop. Wilson had said nothing.

The days continued like that. A blur of begging and pain, and throwing up and sweating. They were punctuated by painful trips to the bathroom, his resting his weight entirely on James as he staggered across the room to pee. The only other variations were Wilson's infrequent absences from his bedside. During these times House would hear the coffee machine running, the humm of the microwave or hear a flush from the bathroom. Wilson never brought any food more powerful than soup for House into the room during those days, likely knowing that even the mildest of scents would cause House to vomit. Sometimes House even heard another, female, voice out his doorway when Wilson would leave the room. He could hear them arguing, hear Jimmy saying, "No Lisa. Thank you for the food, especially the coffee, but you can't see him. He's going to hate me as it is for making him do this and for seeing him like this, no reason for you to suffer through it too. Please leave. I'll call."

Every absence was short, and when he returned Wilson was just as silent as ever. Unwavering and unsympathetic to House's pleas.

In one of his moments of lucidity, House noticed that his cane had been placed on the right side of his bed, resting against the wall and easily within his reach. House had the impression that Wilson liked removing the one support Greg had as much as the diagnostician liked having it taken away. House never tried to leave again, and Wilson never touched the cane after that first day.

House slowly got better. After the initial detox was over, when the nausea had disappeared and the tremors had all but stopped, Wilson administered a pain killer for House's leg. It wasn't Vicodin, didn't have the sweet euphoric instant dismissal of pain that House was used to, but it did make him able to function for a short amount of time. To get up from bed and shower, to walk to the couch with the aid of his cane and watch some soaps, allowed him to reach his piano and play, although it was difficult for the first month to keep his hands steady. He could never manage many of these trips, and Wilson only gave him two pills throughout the day. One in the morning, when the pain was at its worst, and one before dinner, so that Greg could sleep through the night. It wasn't easy or pleasant, but House managed.

Time went by and House continued to improve. Wilson didn't talk. Didn't joke. He made House's meals and his own and watched. House ate the food and tried his best to treat Wilson as if he were still his friend. He bitched and complained, even said that he would forgive James for acting like his nurse-maid if he would just have a conversation, give him a smile, anything. Any sign that Jimmy was still there. Eventually, House renamed his keeper 'Demon Willy', a title which he used constantly when trying to keep up one-sided conversations with his guardian. This reassured him slightly. Because Demon Willy, who was with him twenty-four seven, was not the friend he had known for so long. Even at his worst Wilson could never ignore the painful pleas of someone he cared about, which was unfortunate, because Wilson cared about everyone.

Two and a half months after Wilson had locked himself in with his colleague, he gave House a bottle of Vicodin pills and spoke to him for the first time since his initial explanation. "Here are the pills," Wilson slapped the bottle into his friend's hand and looked at him in the eye. "Don't screw this up." And with that Demon Willy was gone, and Wilson's expression softened as he continued to stare at his friend.

House looked back. For all that House had improved (and even he knew he had. The evidence stared him in the mirror each morning he woke up. The color to his skin had returned, he had regained the weight he had lost, the perpetual circles under his eyes had disappeared. What's more, he could think again. Really think, could concentrate and delve into his memory. For the first time in years House felt as if he was using all of his brain, instead of only half of it, implementing his best attribute in every way, using it to his best advantage. It felt fantastic, was enough to make him willing to ignore the pain), Wilson had deteriorated. House wasn't certain he had seen the man sleep in his time there, and the exhaustion was plain in every worn-out feature Wilson had. Not only that, but he looked skeletal, dwarfed in the button-down shirt he had come to the apartment in, his belt synched a little tighter around his waist. He seemed unsteady on his feet, as if a strong wind could topple him over.

And for one of the few times in his life, House was humbled.

House rattled the bottle, got out a single pill and dry swallowed.

Wilson sighed sadly. "And with that, I'm off." Wilson looked around the room briefly, until he found his lab coat and slung it over his shoulder, making his unsteady way towards the door. "I told Cuddy to expect you back by Monday. Today's Thursday, so that gives you some time to properly reinsert the snark into your personality."

"Wilson," House wasn't sure what he wanted to say as Jimmy stopped at the door, hand on the knob and in mid-stride.

"Yes?"

House panicked for a moment. He wasn't the sort for emotional thanks, for heart-felt apologies, "Don't be an idiot."

Insults were so much easier.

House strode towards his friend and held out his hand, "When you can barely walk, driving isn't the best of ideas."

"Really?" Wilson pointedly stared at his cane.

House smirked. "Nice." House took the keys from his friend, "Come on. I'll drive you home. I can pick you up on Monday for work."

"Not home. Hotel."

House looked up sharply. The lines of exhaustion on Wilson's face were enough to explain his reluctance to go back to his apartment. Julie had a tiring personality, being one of those disgusting people who constantly pushed themselves to perfection, and expected everyone surrounding them to do the same. Wilson couldn't stand up straight, much less keep up appearances with his wife.

"Fine by me. Let's go."

The ride was comfortable and relaxing, both men content to pretend that the experience never happened. They returned to their usual sarcastic commentary, as if nothing had changed.

In front of Wilson's chosen hotel, James reached into his pocket and pulled out the spare key he had made. "Your key," he said as held out his hand and began to get out of the car.

"Keep it. And," House dug in his pocket until he heard the reassuring rattle. With a pop he opened up the lid and shook out 13 pills, two for each day Wilson wouldn't be at work, except for that day, as he had already taken one. "Keep these too," and handed Wilson the bottle of pills he had just gotten back after nearly three months without.

Wilson stared at the hand that held the bottle and key with his mouth open slightly.

"Oh grow up. It's not a wedding ring or anything. You've already got a collection of those. And don't come back to work until Thursday, if you do I'll make Cuddy kick you into submission."

House drove away to see Wilson staring at the car in his rear view mirror, the same astonished look on his face.

Wilson still had the key, although he never used it even when he needed to. He also still kept House's supply of Vicodin, giving his friend a pill when ever he asked, and never forgetting to slip him two before he went home every day. One before he slept, one for when he woke up.

---

Cuddy smiled as she saw House's gaze get fuzzy, as he remembered something. "You're not just turning off his alarm for your own amusement, are you?"

Her most annoying doctor glared, "An oncologist that falls asleep while reassuring the cancer kids is as useless as your collection of bras seems to be."

She glowered at her employee. But even the insult couldn't distract her from the truth, and on the inside she was grinning.

"Well I'm just saying Doctor Cuddy. You know I like the ladies just as much as anyone, but really. Taking them out for a walk so often is just cruel. They're getting exhausted."

The inside grinning abruptly stopped. Leave it to House to destroy the first purely friendly feelings she had towards him in years. She promptly gave up on trying to have an adult conversation with the man. "I've got a case for you."

"Case of what? Roses? How kind. It's not even my birthday."

"It's Jonathan Pratt."

"What an unfortunate last name... Personality fit it?"

"Not as well as yours."

"Ouch."

"He's the billionaire... Computer chips. Great innovator of our age..."

"I know. I haven't been living under a rock, despite common belief."

"So," Cuddy held out the file expectantly.

House stared at the folder without making any move to grab it. "That's it? That's your pitch. 'He's rich; cure him'? Weak, even for you Cuddy."

Lisa sighed, resisting the urge to pinch the bridge of her nose in frustration. "In case you forgot, about two years ago we were offered one hundred million dollars. You then made us loose that money because the donator couldn't stand you, and Wilson got himself fired protecting you. And unlike yourself, Wilson is a good doctor and losing him would damage the reputation of this hospital. Now, Mr. Pratt has indicated that he will give us a donation as soon as he is checked out and cured. Granted, it won't be a hundred million dollars, but it might be enough to give you your Christmas bonus and pay for some new equipment to help you with all of those tests you seem to like to run. Ignoring all that, did it ever occur to you that you, oh what's the term, work for me? That I'm your boss? Where's all the boot-licking?"

"Don't do boot-licking. Ass-kissing though..."

"Go," she shoved the file into his hand, "Off to your team." Cuddy felt a migraine building behind her eyelids.

"That's it?" House looked surprised and a little disappointed.

"I've had all the interaction with you that I can take for the day."

"I'm almost hurt."

"Go!" Cuddy turned and headed towards the exit of the pediatrics lounge.

"Wait,"

Lisa turned around, irritation growing. "Yes House?"

"Was anyone with him?"

Lisa tilted her head, "With him?"

"You know, 'holding his hand' and all that?"

"Yes, an assistant I think."

"A tall blonde woman?"

"No," Cuddy took a step back towards him, "a Chinese man. Why?"

"No reason," House opened the file and looked at it. He blinked repeatedly and then gave Cuddy an insulted look. "You are not giving me this case."

"I am. And you're going to go play doctor and make the hospital some money. Work work work!"

Cuddy turned sharply on her heel and continued her way to the hallway.

She heard House yell, "Satan!" as the door closed behind her.

Lisa smiled to herself as she made her way back to her office.

---

**Author's Note**: I've had this idea for a while now, but until recently I had no way to organize it. I then came across the poem bellow in the movie "Chelsea Walls" (very trippy. I love it, but I'm a very odd person), and it seemed a perfect way (with some modification) to guide the story. I'm posting it in its entirety here, as I completely massacre it for my twisted means throughout this.

_It Doesn't Get Much Better Than This_

_I want to be a lost poem in a stranger's coat pocket that conveys the importance of you  
To assure you of my desires  
To assure you of my dreams.  
I want all the possibilities of you in writing.  
I want to give you your reflection.  
I want your eyes on me.  
I want to travel in the lightness with you  
And stay there  
And I want everything before you to follow us  
Like a trail behind me.  
I want never to say goodbye to you  
Even on the street corner or on the phone.  
I want…  
I want so much I'm breathless  
I want to put my power into a poem  
To burn a hole in your pocket  
So I can sew it.  
I want my words to scream through you.  
I want the poem not to mean that much.  
And I want to contradict myself by accident  
And for you to know what I mean.  
I want you to be distant  
And for me to feel you close.  
I want endless days when it's day  
And the nighttime never to end when it's night.  
I want all the seasons in one day.  
I want the sun to set before us  
And come up in front of us.  
I want water up to our waists  
And I want to be drenched by the rain  
Up to our ankles with holes in our shoes.  
I want to think your thoughts  
Because they are mine.  
I want only what's urgent to you.  
I want to get in the way of the barriers.  
And I want you to be a tough guy  
When you're supposed to  
Like you do already.  
And I want you to be tender  
Like you do already.  
And I want us to have met for a reason  
And I want that reason to be important.  
And I want it to be bigger than us  
I want it to take over us.  
I want to forget.  
I want to remember us.  
And when you say you love me I don't want to think that you really mean New York City  
And all the fun we have in it.  
And I want your smile always  
And your grimaces too.  
I want your scar on my lips  
And I want your disappointments in my heart.  
I want your strength in my soul  
And I want your soul in my eyes.  
I want to believe everything you say.  
And I do.  
And I want you to tell me what's best for me  
When I don't know.  
And when you're lost I want to find you.  
And when you're weary  
I want to give you steeples,  
And cathedral thoughts,  
And coliseum dreams.  
I want to drag you from the darkness  
And kneel with you exhausted  
By the blinding light blaring on us.  
And…  
-Nicole Burdette_

This first chapter, with the latest episode and a few changes to my original plot plans, is going to be a lot bigger than I initially expected. So, I've split it into two sections. The second section should be posted by Sunday. Unless something evil happens. Let's hope the evilness stays away. -crosses fingers-

That being said, altogether the story should be 11 to 13 chapters long. There will be romance! Danger! Intrigue! (Okay, honestly, not much intrigue...) Very exciting! Meaning that you want to continue reading, no? -puppy dog eyes- Please?

I am hesitant to say anything in the way of ships as of right now, since I've yet to introduce all of the characters, much less get really involved with the pairings... So for now I'll keep silent on it.

Reviews/Reviewers make me happy.

Just thought I'd throw that out there.

-hinthint-


	2. A Stranger's Coat Pocket, pt two

**Drenched**

**Summary**: House enjoys the company of a patient- obviously signaling the apocalypse, Wilson is getting a divorce, Chase is falling head over heals, Foreman's thinking of leaving the team and Cameron's sister has cancer. At least it's not raining. Yet.

**Disclaimer**: House ain't mine. Belongs to David Shore and Fox. O woe is me. The poem, "It Doesn't Get Much Better Than This" belongs to Nicole Burdette. More woe. Don't sue!

**Author's Note**: I'm sure this will become pretty obvious very quickly, but I know next to nothing about medicine. I have done some (very limited) research online and via my local library, and as such any medical claims I make in this story should be ignored, or accepted at face value and then ignored. If you happen to know anything about medicine yourself, please feel free to correct me.

Please note that this is part two to chapter one, and not a separate chapter altogether. Hence, the same chapter title. (No, I have no intention of making these this long every time. I have no idea what got into me. I'm obviously insane.)

This section didn't turn out nearly half as well as I had hoped. Even if you're disappointed, stick with me until Chapter Two. If it's still hopeless by then, I wont beg you to stay. –grin-

This story is canon-compatible up to "Distractions".

Reviews/Reviewers are loved.

Thank you and enjoy!

---

**Chapter One: A Stranger's Coat Pocket, Part Two**

_I want to be a lost poem in a stranger's coat pocket that conveys the importance of you  
To assure you of my desires  
To assure you of my dreams.  
I want all the possibilities of you in writing.  
-Nicole Burdette_

_---_

Cameron resisted the urge to laugh hysterically, cry or bang her head against the table.

She was sitting in the diagnostics lounge, coffee in hand, various letters strewn out on the table in front of her. Foreman was across from her, looking similar, sorting through medical files. Chase was on the computer, checking House's email.

The team needed a new case desperately, as House was getting bored. And as they'd all learned, when House was bored, no one was safe. So they were all doing their part to find an intriguing case that could satisfy their boss's need for intricacies.

But Cameron knew she wasn't being very helpful. She put up a sincere and honest effort to read each and every letter, but shortly after she began to focus on the words she would lose them again, too busy worrying to work.

It was just ironic, that was all. It was the only reason why it was bothering her so much. The irony. Any other disease, it would have been fine. Well, not fine, obviously. But it wouldn't disable her so completely. Wouldn't stop her in her tracks; prevent her from doing the most mundane of tasks, like reading letters from dying people and their families.

Funny. Should Clara be classified as a dying person now? It was hard to think of her that way. Her older sister had never been anything if not full of life and energy, young at heart always. Even though Allison was thirteen years younger than her half-sibling, the two were closer than the best of friends. They had helped one another through trying times, both in childhood and adulthood, and the result was a connection deeper than most could imagine.

When Clara was ten her mother died of breast cancer, leaving their father alone and miserable and Clara lost and frightened. A year after the death their father had married again, this time to Cameron's mother, who quickly became pregnant and gave birth to Allison. The new baby, so similar to Clara and yet so different, forced the girl to break out of the shell she had formed upon her mother's death, the small baby's smile making Clara want to smile too, a task that neither the awkward attempts of her father nor the gentle pleadings of her new step-mother had been able to accomplish. If this seven pound, days old, person could face this big and frightening world with a smile, then so could Clara. Four years later their younger brother, William, was born.

Even though there was such a gap in their ages, Allison and Clara quickly developed a strong bond that nothing seemed able to break. In Allison's eyes, Clara was brave, fearless and curious, never hesitant to investigate any unusual situation. Always intrigued by people, quick to make friends and full of what seemed to be an uncontrollable force to do, to see, to discover. And yet, somehow, she radiated an inexplicable clam. As if all of her energy and spirit were perfectly channeled to bring about the best in Clara, that all of her love and passion existed in a chaos so organized that it left her truly content, at peace.

As for Clara, she found Allison charming from the outset. She told Cameron that she knew that her younger sister was smart by how quickly she learned to do everything. By how soon she was walking, talking, reading. Allison was among the best of her fellows, a quick and intelligent study at whatever she set out to do. Clara said that the intelligence was only matched by Allison's fiercely nurturing nature and desire to please. When she was young she would find small bugs in the backyard as Clara watched, moving them carefully from point A to B because, "There's more sun by the fence than by the fountain."

The bond grew when Clara went to the local university for undergraduate school, living at home to spare the family from paying for a dorm room she insisted that she didn't need. By the end of those four years it was obvious that Allison adored everything about her older sister, and that Clara found her sibling irresistible. They had active lives outside of one another, of course, but even after a long night of dorm parties the first thing Clara would do when she got home was kiss her younger sister on the forehead before she went to sleep. And if she was still awake, Allison would run to the door as soon as she heard it open each evening, giving her sister a hug before she went back to whatever interest she was pursuing at the time. Each sister gave the other strength, reassurance and comfort simply by being.

As for their younger brother, the sisters doted on him, spoiling William endlessly and making certain that he never lacked for love. Even at six, they could see the flirt he was destined to become, always wandering off to bring back his mother and sisters flowers, drawing them pictures and kissing them on the cheeks to get his way. He was a lady's man waiting to emerge, the perfect combination of sweetness and independence that they were all certain would make women swoon when he was fifteen years older.

And they were happy this way, each child filled to the brim with love and care, lacking nothing. They had no way of knowing that it would be ending soon.

Clara went to California as a grad student on a full-paid scholarship, and two years later their father died of lung cancer.

He was a cigar man, and despite everyone's attempts to make him quit the bad habit, he continued smoking his tobacco, too stubborn and set in his ways to change. "Hell, I'm an old man anyway," he would say as he scratched his beard, "Stopping now would be a bit after the fact, don't you think? No, I'll enjoy the last years of my life properly, with a nice Cuban in my hand."

It had destroyed Cameron's mother, a meek, quiet woman with a soft smile and kind eyes. Although she had healed her father when he felt as if he could never be whole again, Allison's mother couldn't withstand the death of her husband. Her strength was of a special kind, for the curing and caring of others, sustaining those around her with a gentle but firm hand. And although she was more than a little skilled at this, able to put even the most broken of people back together again, she was incapable of offering the same solace for herself.

Clara had come home for the funeral and wanted to stay, to desert her graduate work so that she could take care of a family that she thought desperately needed her. Anyone could see that her step-mother could barely take care of herself, much less deal with trials of raising two children.

But Cameron wouldn't let her.

She had only been twelve, but she was stubborn and determined. Allison knew how much her sister loved her studies, and wouldn't let the person she admired most abandon her dreams when she herself could watch after her brother and mother, if she needed to.

Clara didn't like it, nor did the rest of the small town, but in the end, Alison got her way. She had convinced everyone that her mother only needed time, and then she would return to her former self. Asked them all to give it a week, a month. Let her mother have some time to grieve, that's all.

Clara left, but only with the promise of daily phone-calls. The town had allowed it, but planned to keep an eye on the Burroughs family, on the look-out for any sign of the children being ill-cared for. And although Cameron's mother never did fully come back to herself, no one knew until it was much too late that Allison had taken on a role no one thought a twelve year old capable of maintaining.

More often than not, Allison's mother would spend her days in a rocking chair by the window, looking outside at their large front yard and remembering a marriage cut far too short. There were times when she could pull herself together for a few hours, and during those times she, Allison and William would go out to buy groceries, go clothes shopping, take care of the necessities of life that the family could afford.

They never starved, that was for certain. But most of the money they got from the funds they received in their father's absence were spent on food and simple house-hold provisions rather than on pretty clothes, hair products or electronics. For most children this would have been unacceptable, but Allison didn't have the time to be upset, and William's complaints were quickly silenced and easily brushed aside.

Allison became the parent in the family, taking care of William and her mother while doing her best to succeed in school. By that point, Cameron knew that she wanted to be a doctor. She liked helping people, and she felt that no greater reason could be found to make the job more suitable for her. Perhaps she didn't have the talent of her mother, able to soothe even the most distraught of persons with a caring word and smile; that was an ability more suited to Clara. But Allison did have the innate drive to shelter broken things, the help mend them if she could. She knew there was more to it than that, the simple desire to heal, knew she had to display excellence in all of her classes. It wouldn't be easy. As intelligent as Allison was, she was no genius. She was smart, but not brilliant, and in every advanced class she took she felt the need to work twice as hard as any of her fellows, to push herself more than they felt was strictly necessary. That, in combination with her responsibilities at home, would have been too much pressure for the average teenager to take.

Somehow, she had done it. As Clara was setting up her own psychology practice, Cameron was head of the household, one of the top students of her class and rapidly gaining respect and credibility within the community as a very able young woman. But no one, not the neighbors, not her sister, not her teachers, knew of the extra burdens she had taken on.

By the Christmas of her senior year, Allison had forgotten that she wasn't supposed to be the care-taker of the family, had given up her hopes of medical school (finally aware of the price of such dreams), and had just begun to accept the life she was leading for what it was, and to expect nothing else. When Clara came home to see what her little sister had done in the years she was away, (the scholarship, after all, provided for everything except for trips back home. By the time she had finished at the university, she was scraping together every penny she could to create her practice, leaving nothing for plane rides) she made a decision.

She sent Allison to her school councilor and had her apply to the best pre-med schools in the country. She contacted every scholarship provider she could find and made her sister apply for those as well. At the end of the holiday she went back to California and made her arrangements to leave, referring clients to other doctors, ending her contract with the building she had rented and getting her personal affairs in order.

By June Clara had returned home, Allison had been admitted into a well-known university with one of the best pre-med programs in the country, and had gotten a full-ride scholarship to pay for every aspect of her education, including, to everyone's pleasure, trips home.

Clara then told her sister that if she didn't peruse her own goals, achieve her own dreams and do something for herself, she would have a very upset older sibling bent on banging sense into her head. Violently.

Cameron didn't look back.

More than a decade later, Allison was a successful doctor, happy and content in her profession. Her mother had died several years ago, and although the death had affected her greatly, she knew that her mother's suffering had ended. Will was doing what he loved while he loved it (in more than one sense), and Clara had opened another practice on the east coast and was thriving, happily married with an eleven year old son. The siblings remained close, weekly phone calls keeping them connected until the holidays came around, when they would, at least for one day, get together to see one another.

All was well.

Until that morning, when Cameron woke up to the sound of her telephone blaring at the side of her bed.

She groggily sat up and reached for the phone, bringing it to her ear as she flopped back down onto her bed.

She cleared her throat, "'Lo?"

"Al?"

"Clara," Cameron sat up instantly. She never called this early. "Is something wrong? Everyone okay?"

Her sister laughed on the other side of the line, "This how you greet every morning caller, Al?"

Cameron smiled, "Only when they're as special as you, my dear."

"Oh yes, that's it. Flatter me. Then I might tell you why I called."

"You're brilliant."

"A start…"

"My role-model, greatest hero… If I were in charge of such things you would be proclaimed queen of the universe and the rest of us would bow before you like ants."

Clara's grin was audible, "At last, someone with sense. You _should _be in charge of those things. You obviously know what you're talking about."

"Clara," Allison stopped smiling and became serious, "You never like staling, not unless it's bad. Just say it."

"Al, I don't think this is one of those things I can just say to you without some sort of warn-"

"Clara," even Cameron heard the note of irritation in her tone.

"I have breast cancer."

Cameron was certain she stopped breathing.

"Al? Allison?"

"I'm here," she fought down the panic, the familiar fear. Cancer. Why was it always cancer? "What stage is it?"

"Three."

"When did you find out?"

"Last night."

"How big is the tumor?"

"Five and a half centimeters. I should have checked sooner, I know. I noticed the lump, but I didn't have the time, I didn't think... I've felt fine, and we've been so busy, you know. Moving, and Mark's business taking off, and work-"

"I want you here."

"What?"

"Our oncology department is the best on the east coast. Transfer here."

"Al, I don't have the power to do that. I'm sure PPTH does have the best, but I can't just admit myself there,"

"I'll get you admitted. I know the head of the department."

"Are you sure you can do that?"

No. "Yes. I'll talk to him today. Who's your doctor and what's his number?"

Cameron grabbed the pen and pad of paper she kept on her bedside table and wrote down the information Clara gave her. She didn't look forward to the prospect of asking Wilson to take on her sister's case. He was a nice man, but he was also a very busy man, and she barely knew him. This was no small favor she was asking. That would have been requesting a consult, or borrowing a dollar. Those were things that she sure Doctor Wilson would have been happy to help her with. But curing her sister of stage three breast cancer?

Oh God, it was already to stage three...

"Al?"

"Yeah?"

"Stop."

"Stop what?"

"Worrying. I can feel it through the phone for Christ's sake. Calm down, I'm doing fine."

Allison forced a smile, "If you're upset with my worry you must be insane with the amount of fluttering Mark has got be doing."

"You have no idea. He wants to carry me from room to room. I mean, its fun and all, I feel like I'm sixteen again, but it's getting a bit absurd now."

Cameron grinned and went back into her thoughts. Cancer…

"Al!"

"I'm sorry," she said sheepishly.

"Don't be sorry. I know this is going to be hard for you,"

"Hard for me?" Cameron threw the blankets off of her legs and stood up from her bed, making her way to the kitchen. "None of that now. As of this moment until you've gotten healthier your only concern will be yourself and getting better. Understood?" Cameron started making her morning coffee, ignoring the way her hand shook when she took down her mug.

"Yes ma'am." A slight pause, "Allison?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you."

Cameron smiled, "No thanks needed. Now, I expect you to sleep all day and do nothing that even remotely resembles work. Let that strapping young husband of yours wait on you hand and foot, it'll make him feel better. Plus he cooks a mean omelet. I'll call you when I get home from work today, okay?"

"Alright,"

"Love you,"

"I love you too."

Clara hung up and Cameron allowed herself to lean against one of her counters, slowly sliding down until she sat on the floor.

Cancer.

It was always cancer.

---

"Earth to Cameron?"

Allison jumped at the voice.

"Sorry," Chase muttered as he moved from in front of her and sat instead at the glass table, "just wanted to make sure you were still among the living."

"Yeah I'm here, I just don't think I can go through another one of these letters," Foreman grinned as Cameron, the most patient of the team, threw down her stack with a sigh. "Most of the ones I've read are just variations of slightly obscure diseases. I'll write them back with suggestions later, but none of these will interest House."

"Well I've got nothing," Foreman said, tossing his own pile onto the table and looking down at them with disgust. "This is ridiculous."

"What?" Asked Chase as he took up the big baseball and threw it into the air, "Finding no interesting cases? I agree. Didn't get any in the emails either. Usually there's something remotely remarkable out there, but just when we're about to have an under stimulated House; nothing."

"No," Foreman growled as he looked up at the Aussie, "That's just bad luck. Us having to search for patients for House so he doesn't terrorize the hospital is ridiculous. It's insane. We're wasting our time and talents on this."

"It's been two days since our last case. I'm sure the medical world survived without our contributions. "

"That's not the point," Foreman said quietly, standing up to get some more coffee and grabbing a mug violently as he strode across the room.

The frustration had been mounting for months. Being House's lackey was not an enjoyable experience, especially when one wasn't a member of his fan club. And although both of his teammates were obviously annoyed by their boss, Chase and Cameron seemed to be card-carrying members, too swept up in House's intelligence and skill to see his faults, or to notice the way they were treated. It wasn't that Eric didn't respect House as a doctor; no graduate of medical school worth the thousands of dollars spent on the education could witness even a moment of House at work without being impressed. It wasn't even that he didn't like his boss. He didn't, but that was something he could deal with quite easily.

He was simply tired of being a puppet.

Even before taking the job with House, Foreman was aware of his own intelligence, aware of his own abilities and potential as a doctor. It wasn't vanity and it wasn't pride, it was a simple knowledge of his own capabilities. Unfortunately, this knowledge was often mistaken for arrogance, and although he had proven time and time again that he actually contained the capacity for medicine that he claimed he had, he was given next to no credit for it. Maybe because his certainty of his own abilities aggravated those around him, maybe it was because he was black or maybe it was simple jealousy, but throughout all of his years of study he was rarely acknowledged as anything other than a bright student and a good doctor.

And that wasn't enough for Foreman.

He didn't want to be a good doctor, he wanted to be a great doctor. But obviously, the medical community at large was still unimpressed with his attempts to distinguish himself from his peers.

So he applied for the most challenging job he could find. Working under Doctor Gregory House at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital in the diagnostics department.

Suffice to say, he didn't think he would be spending his time doing secretarial work. "Anywhere else," Foreman poured himself some coffee, "and I'd have a full schedule of patients," he turned back to his fellow puppets, "actually doing my job instead of trying to appease some egomaniac psychopath."

"Hmm. Egomaniac psychopath. I like it. Think I can get it embroidered on a hat?"

House was standing in the doorway, leaning heavily on his cane with a file in hand.

"I'd pay for it," Foreman muttered, sitting back down at the table.

"Aw, that's sweet Eric. Still won't get you into my pants though," House limped across the room and went up to the white board, starting to write a new set of symptoms, "Now chocolate. That might make me more inclined to accept your obvious advances."

Foreman rolled his eyes and took a sip of coffee.

"You found us a patient." Cameron had a look of utter astonishment and slight horror on her face.

House turned around and squinted at Cameron, raising an eyebrow slightly. "No," House stepped away from the board and capped the pen. "Cuddy found us a case. Behold!"

The team looked at the board, Foreman tilting his head slightly at the symptoms.

"You've got to be kidding me," Chase had dropped the ball on the floor and was staring at the symptoms with a bewildered expression on his face.

"B-but..."

"Ah, excellent. Doctor Cameron has already been reduced to stuttering. This is going to be a good day, I can tell." House was smirking as he made his way to the coffee.

"It's a common allergic reaction," Chase was still staring.

"Cuddy's blackmailing you, isn't she?" Foreman gave the diagnostician a suspicious glance. There was no other way House would take the patient. It was just so...

"Boring, isn't it? No, not blackmail exactly. She just pulled the old, 'You cost us a hundred million dollars and are now my slave' routine. Still milking it, two years later. At least she hasn't wanted me to do anything too kinky yet..."

"Not an image I needed," Chase twitched, "I'm still nauseated by the thought of Wilson in spandex and doing... that... to a rubber duck."

The team gave a collective shudder.

"I thought it was creative." House took a bagel from the table. "What can I say? Our Jimmy is adventurous." He bit off a large chunk.

"Who's the patient?" Cameron asked. House gestured to his full mouth and shrugged. "I mean, it can't be just any patient if she's willing to face your sarcasm."

"Arrrothn Rat," crumbs fell from his stubble to the floor.

"It has to be someone rich," Foreman took another sip of coffee, pointedly ignoring House.

"Very rich. And someone with influence," Chase looked up at his boss, cheeks puffed out and shirt covered with bagel pieces, "If Cuddy was going to make him cure someone involuntarily, because it obviously will only work once, it would have to be someone whose good praises would earn the hospital more credibility."

"Jrrronoth Rat!" Little bits of bagel now completely covered the floor where House was standing.

Cameron sat up in her seat, "Jonathon Pratt?"

House smiled in triumph, a ridiculous sight with his cheeks still puffed out with bread.

"The Jonathon Pratt?" Chase whistled. "Impressive."

House swallowed. "Yep. Very impressive. I would jump for joy but, you know. Bum leg. Not so fun. Now let's all work for Mommy and get her the mula so that we can do something more interesting with our time. We already know what it is, so all that's left is to figure out what caused it. Cameron, go take a patient history."

Cameron blinked, looking up from the letters she was still attempting to read. "Right now?"

"Yeah, that would be nice. Unless you want to spend more time diagnosing? Want to pretend it's something else?"

Cameron sighed and stood up from the table, gathering a clipboard and pen.

"Hey, none of that sulking. If we want him to deliver the goods, we better give him something nice to stare at, so smile. I would send Chase, but you've got better hair."

Both doctors glared at him. "Stop pouting Chase, you know it's true. Get some Head and Shoulders and we'll have the contest again next week." He looked at Cameron. "Why are you still here?"

She rolled her eyes exited the room, grabbing her cup of coffee before leaving and giving a small wave to the boys.

"So," House looked at his two remaining doctors, "Have you guys figured out what's wrong with Cameron?"

"Wrong?" Foreman raised an eyebrow. She did seem a bit distracted, perhaps not as focused as usual, maybe a little pale. But more likely than not she had a bad night, didn't sleep well.

But even as he thought it, he recalled how quiet she had been that day, how drawn. She wasn't herself, evading conversations and patients as if actual human interaction would require too much of something she had no energy to give.

He hated the fact that House had noticed it before he had.

"Does it seem like something's wrong?" Chase asked he picked up the big tennis ball from where he had dropped it earlier.

"Well if you have to ask," House hobbled forward so he was standing next to Chase, "then I guess I have my question answered." He snatched the ball out of the air and smirked at Chase. "She hasn't seen any patients, only two of the letters she was reading have been opened and she has bags under her eyes," Chase and Foreman exchanged looks as House put the marker he had used away, "Something's wrong," he looked thoughtful for a beat before he gave his head a slight shake and limped around the table.

"I want you two to go over to the building where he had the attack." He slouched down into one of the chairs, "The allergen probably originated there, I was you to see if you can find it."

"How do we find out what caused the reaction if we don't know what he's allergic to?" Foreman remained sitting even as Chase stretched to his full height.

"I'll have Cameron call you when she's done with the history. Now hurry up, would you? I want this done before General Hospital comes on in an hour."

Chase was already out the door, but Foreman lingered, watching his boss as he threw the tennis ball in the air.

Foreman was a neurologist, top of his class, working for over a decade to get where he was today, and he was being sent to poke around in an office. All of that effort, for this. "I'm tired of being your errand boy." It wasn't an angry accusation, not a wounded remark. Just a statement.

"And I'm tired of having to pay hookers for sub-par service," said just as seriously with another toss of the ball, "And yet, you'll still do what I ask and I'll still pay them. Oh curse the system!"

Foreman sighed and got up from the table, grabbing his jacket and jogging to catch up with Chase.

---

"The building you work at, is it relatively clean?" Cameron was sitting across from Jonathon Pratt, who was comfortable on the hospital bed. He was a middle-aged man of average size and height, with black hair and hazel eyes, unremarkable in virtually every way. No one could have guessed by looking at him that he was one of the richest men in the world. Allison was nearly through with the history and still surprised by how at ease she felt in his presence, used to rich patients glorifying in their wealth and prestige, annoyed that they had to deal with tedious questions like normal patients. Generally they felt that they were above such things.

"I think so," Mr. Pratt said, looking up at Allison as he twisted his wedding ring on his finger, "I mean, I don't go in there every day, but as far as I can tell there are no cockroaches or rats." He gave her a smile.

"Okay," Cameron made a check on her form, "Any recent changes to the environment? Construction, remodeling?"

"We had the top floor repainted yesterday. Could that have caused," he gestured towards the left side of his face, now back to its normal pigment, but which had earlier been a shocking shade of red with hives spotting from his mouth to temple, "that."

Alison did her best to look supportive, "It's possible, depending on the paint that was used and your sensitivity to chemicals."

"I wouldn't know about the paint, but I've always had a problem with intense chemicals." He grinned, "My wife hates it. She can never spray the pesticides in the garden unless she wants me coughing and wheezing for hours. She usually waits until I'm away on business to do it now." Another rueful smile, "We don't have a very impressive garden."

Cameron smiled back, "Your wife likes to garden?"

"Loves it. She says it's relaxing and refuses to let me hire someone to help her with tending to it. She said something like, 'Johnny, if you want to get the garden to grow you've got to take care of it, so it knows it's loved. Now how would it feel if I let someone else get filthy, muddy and disgusting when I'm the one whose supposed to keep it?'"

"She seems like a very smart woman,"

Pratt nodded, "The smartest. Light-years ahead of me,"

Cameron shot him a suspicious glance, eye-brow raised.

"I'm serious! She's actually a doctor too, you know. A pediatrician at Princeton General."

"Really? And she still finds time to garden?"

"Whenever she can manage it," he had a wistful look on his face, seeming to momentarily forget where he was. He looked up at Cameron again, "My wife is amazing. She can do anything."

Cameron found herself smiling. One of the most brilliant men on Earth, and his biggest hero was the woman he was married to. "I don't doubt it." She looked down at her chart, marking a few areas. "Well, thank you Mr. Pratt. We're going to run a few more tests and then I'll get back to you as soon as we know what caused your episode."

"Thank you Doctor Cameron,"

"You're welcome," Allison stood up and left the room, sliding the glass door closed behind her and pulling her cell-phone out of her pocket.

She began the journey back to the diagnostics office, dialing Chase's number as she dodged nurses and patients.

"Hello?"

"Chase?"

"Hey, what've you got for us?"

"Are you at the building yet?"

"Just arrived. Foreman's in the boy's room, but when he's out we're going to start searching."

"Start with the top floor. Apparently they just had it repainted and Pratt is sensitive to chemicals."

"Do you really think that paint could have chemicals concentrated enough to cause that sort of reaction?"

Cameron was down the hall from House's office when she stopped in her tracks, looking ahead of her to see Doctor Wilson sitting in front of his friend's desk, laughing about something as House stared with an aggrieved look.

"Well it depends on when the paint was made,"

"Pratt's not going to use paint that's more than a decade old. The man's a billionaire, there's no reason why he should be pinching pennies and using leftovers."

"He's also a busy man, meaning that he wouldn't be paying attention to what kind of paint was used so long as the office was a different color when he got in this morning. It's not a matter of him wanting to save money," Cameron was still standing in the hallway, watching Wilson pick up his coffee cup and go to the sink, "It's about the people who he hired trying to make money."

"You think they scammed Pratt? Made him pay for new paint when they were using old stuff?"

"Yep," Wilson emptied his mug into the sink and rinsed it.

"You've been around House too long. I still don't think that the chemicals could cause such a violent reaction so quickly."

"Well you'll just have to check and see." He walked back to House, gave a wave and started for the door. "I have to go."

"Okay," slight pause, "Cameron?"

"Yes?" Wilson was pushing the door open.

"Is everything alright?"

She stopped her observations. "What?"

"Are you alright? Nothing's wrong, is it?"

Yes. Yes something's wrong. My sister is dying of a disease that has already taken more happiness from me and the people I love than anyone should have to give. The person I admire more than anyone in the world is sick, and she's going to die unless I ask a near stranger to heal her, for no other reason than because I asked him to. And even if he says that he'll try, that doesn't mean that she will be okay, and the uncertainty is killing me. I feel like screaming or crying, but I can't because I'm a doctor, because I'm responsible and because I have a job to do. Because if she is going to have any chance to survive, I have to hold myself together so she will spend her energy on healing instead of on making sure I'm okay.

Everything's wrong.

"No, everything's fine," Cameron forced a smile, "I'm just tired today. You and Foreman get back here quickly, okay? Try to get an undiluted sample of the paint and we'll run some tests to see if it's the cause of Pratt's reaction," Wilson was walking away in the opposite direction, case-file in hand.

"Got to go. See you when you guys get back," she snapped her phone closed and marched past the diagnostics office, tapping Wilson on the shoulder and bracing herself.

---

Chase turned off his phone, puzzled over Cameron's abrupt departure. All was not well, that was a certainty, but just as obvious was her reluctance to tell him anything.

They have sex and she never trusts him again.

Perfect.

It didn't matter that it was nearly a year ago, that they hadn't spoken of it since, that there had been no hints or notions that something similar would take place again. It remained an invisible but nearly tangible barrier between them, preventing them from ever becoming more than casual friends. More often than not it was an easy wall to ignore, and they continued on with their relationship as if nothing had changed, but then, the moment things became more personal than everyday conversation permitted, one or both of them would become uncomfortable, feel as if they were testing the limits of a line not meant to be crossed.

Chase wasn't going to fool himself- he knew that he had, at the time, an interest in Cameron beyond their already established relationship as colleagues. She was beautiful and nice, smart and funny. He had liked her from the outset, and soon that fondness grew into something else. It was that stupid 'something else' that made him go along with her that day, made him accept her kisses and return them with equal enthusiasm.

And it had been wrong. She was on drugs and high, unable to think clearly, barely aware of what she was doing as she removed his clothes from him. For a time he was content to ignore these facts, to believe, briefly, that it wasn't the drugs or the fear that made her do it, that it was him. That she wanted, not just anyone, but him. These delusions were quickly shattered, as Cameron continued on with her business as if it had never happened, and eventually Chase was glad of it. Allison was too good of a friend to lose, and she obviously had no interest in him that wasn't strictly platonic.

But now, during times like this, he would get the impression that all was not well between them. That she was holding something back, afraid that if she gave him any notion of a deeper friendship between them, he would assume that she wanted something more from him. Normally, this wouldn't have bothered him, and he would quickly set her to rights, reassure her of his completely pure intentions. But, she was not the only one who had made the mistake that day.

He had taken advantage of her, and the shame of it kept him from pressing her now. He had no right to ask her to express any troubles she may be having, he had no right to ask anything of her.

They were friends, but they were both so afraid of crossing lines that they brought the progression of that friendship to a standstill. Friends, but not good friends. They knew one another, but not well. And both felt the worse for it.

Or at least Chase did. He sighed and let his hair flop into his face, wondering again how he managed to screw up every relationship, romantic or not, that he ever had.

Before he could become too immersed in his pathetic people-skills, Foreman came out of the bathroom.

"I was worried there for a second," Chase smirked. "Afraid you fell in."

Foreman glared. "Ha. Did you hear from Cameron?"

"She said to check the top floor first. They painted yesterday and Pratt's has a hypersensitivity to chemicals."

"Depending on the age of the paint they used, the concentration of the chemicals will be varied."

"Exactly."

Foreman led the way to the elevator, "Up we go then."

When the two men stepped out of the lift, they were greeted by a overpowering scent of drying paint and a woman whose smile took up most of her face, displaying a set of very white teeth. "Hello! My name's Audrey!"

Chase quickly stepped behind Foreman and nudged him forward, using him as a shield against the cheerfulness.

Foreman shot an irritated look behind him and gave a tentative smile to the woman in front of them. "Er, hello Audrey. I'm Doctor Foreman and this is Doctor Chase. We're working on Mr. Pratt's case,"

"Oh yes," like a switched had been flipped, Audrey's smile instantly turned into a frown, "it was so horrible what happened. I was so scared, and Lee didn't know what to do... Good thing Mrs. Wilson was here or else the two of us would have been completely useless."

Chase perked up from behind Foreman, "Mrs. Wilson?"

Audrey blinked, "Yes, Mr. Pratt's economic advisor,"

An elbow jabbed Chase in the ribs and he let out a huff of air.

"We were wondering if you could answer a few questions for us?" Foreman smiled pleasantly as Chase resisted the urge to kick him. "It would be very helpful to the case,"

"Oh of course, anything." The smile was back, and in full force.

"The paint job, it was done yesterday, correct?"

"Yes,"

"In the evening?"

"Oh yes. Couldn't do it in the afternoon, everyone was working."

"What time would you say they finished?"

"I couldn't be certain, but it was probably early in the morning. This is a big floor, after all." She produced a grating giggle that made Chase want to shove his head into a blender.

He could see Foreman's smile becoming more strained. "That it is. Did they have any extra paint that they left behind?"

"I don't know, but if they did it would have been put in the garage... Oh, but it's just huge! Are you going to go look for them? And I think the lights are broken too,"

Chase held in a groan.

Foreman sighed, "Yes, we are going to go look for them. Thank you for your time,"

And with that he turned around and headed back to the elevator, Chase on his heels.

They heard Audrey cry shrilly, "The color is 'Springtime Moss'!" just before the doors closed.

Time to look for the needle.

---

Wilson was in a good mood. Sure, Greg would probably drug him in his sleep and he'd end up being several hours late for work the next morning, but at least he had finally gotten some of his own back. House's frustration at the simplicity of the case Cuddy had forced him to take just made the victory all the sweeter.

He was finally starting to understand where Greg was coming from with the whole, 'annoy them to death' definition of friendship. Much more entertaining than the traditional definition.

Pulled out of his thoughts, Wilson turned when he felt a small tap on his shoulder.

"Doctor Cameron," James tried not to let his inner astonishment show. Although he liked Cameron (at which House would say that he liked everyone, making the point irrelevant), he was surprised to be confronted by her.

He had felt for the young doctor during her first years at PPTH, as easily becoming attached to patients was something he himself had to overcome when he was younger. It wasn't easy, to turn off or limit how much he cared for people. He didn't do it because he wanted to, but because he had to if he wanted to do his job properly. It was painful for him to see people suffer and to not make some move to comfort them, an effort that would have been seen as inappropriate if he attempted it in his confines as a practitioner of medicine. And that wasn't even taking into account the toll that deaths of patients could have on a person who cared too much.

Knowing this, he had perhaps overstepped his bounds with Cameron, trying to mentor her, help her become less emotionally invested in her patients. Guidance that she, possibly, didn't want or appreciate. He had since kept his distance from her, not wishing to upset her. She already had the trial of working with House everyday, no need for him to add to her irritation.

But now here she was, after months of barely speaking to one another, looking very nervous and as if she was expecting him to yell at her any second. "How can I help you?"

He saw her take in a deep breath, "I was hoping I could ask a favor of you."

"Yes?"

Another breath, "My," a pause, a flash of uncertainty, "my sister has stage three breast cancer."

Wilson was shocked into silence.

"I know that you're busy, and that you already have a full load of cases, but her doctor... I've never heard of him before, and the hospital isn't known for their oncology department..."

She looked at him straight in the eye. "Honestly, I don't trust them."

Wilson, ignoring the warning signs going off in his head ("What if her sister dies? Will she still be able to work with you? Will you still be able to work with her?" "Having her sister here will distract her from job, her patient care will be compromised." "You have a full case load, you don't have the time to take on another patient."), didn't need to think twice.

"Do you want me to take her case?"

A look of relief washed over her features, "Would you, please? I know it's a lot to ask, and that I have no right to-"

He held up a hand, halting her frantic pleas. "Of course," he gave her a reassuring smile and hoped that he wasn't making a mistake. "Give me her and her doctor's information and I'll have her transferred as soon as possible."

She reached into one of her pockets and pulled out a small piece of folded paper.

She passed him the note, and then held his hand in hers for a moment, her cold hand squeezing his as she looked at him.

"Thank you."

Wilson took the paper and put it in his lab-coat pocket.

"You're welcome."


	3. To Travel In The Lightness

**Drenched**

**Summary**: House enjoys the company of a patient- obviously signaling the apocalypse, Wilson is getting a divorce, Chase is falling head over heals, Foreman's thinking of leaving the team and Cameron's sister has cancer. At least it's not raining. Yet.

**Disclaimer**: You know how kids ask for ponies when they're little? And then they get all happy and excited whenever the opportunity to give gifts comes about, thinking that maybe –this- time their parents went that extra mile just to make the special day even more special. This excitement is generally followed by a period of intense mourning when they don't get said pony, and life is generally miserable for them for a while. Well, I'm like that, except I ask for House. Still not mine though. –sadness- House belongs to David Shore and Fox. "It Doesn't Get Much Better Than This" belongs to Nicole Burdette. I'm now off to enter my mourning phase.

**Author's Note**: Along with uploading this chapter I've fixed some little issues and two big mistakes from the last section.

1) I stated that Clara had stage three breast cancer, which I then immediately followed by saying that the cancer had not spread to the axillary lymph nodes and axillary tissues. About, oh, a day, after posting I looked at my notes and discovered that having the cancer spread to the axillary lymph nodes and axillary tissues is, in fact, a part of the definition of stage three breast cancer. I marvel at myself sometimes. In any case, this has been replaced with a statement saying that the tumor is 5 and a half centimeters large.

2) Having just watched "Hunting" two days ago, I realized that Cameron was not high off of her meds, but high off of recreational drugs. This has been corrected.

I know nothing about General Hospital. I looked up the name of the characters and picked one at random. My excuse is that "Drenched" takes place in the future, so anything could happen in the soap between now and then. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

I still know nothing about medicine. Feel free to correct me at any time.

This story is canon-compatible up to "Distractions", and actually, now that I think on it, works quite nicely with "Skin Deep" as well.

Reviews/Reviewers are loved.

Thank you and enjoy!

---

**Chapter Two: To Travel In The Lightness**

_I want to give you your reflection.  
I want your eyes on me.  
I want to travel in the lightness with you  
And stay there  
-Nicole Burdette_

---

"You have a cold."

"But my nose," the patient gave a demonstrative wheeze, "is so stuffed up."

"Okay. It's still a cold."

"It seems like I'm producing a lot more snot than when I usually have a cold. You didn't even look at that. And what about my throat? And my head?"

House glared at the skinny man sitting on the exam table. "It's a cold." It was times like this when he really wished he still had his Vicodin handy. Or at least permission to use his cane as a weapon. "Go home. Take some Dayquil. By morning you'll be fine, and likely twice as irritating."

"But what if you're wrong? I mean, I could have an upper respiratory infection."

Although, now that House thought about it, he didn't really care all that much about having authorization to beat patients. If they got a good whack every now and then, maybe they would be less inclined to be stupid. "Do you have any idea how much I hate the fact that people like you have access to the internet?"

The young man gave him a brief puzzled glance before launching into another round of pointless talking. "Look, I don't want to cause any problems,"

"Too late," Greg muttered, rubbing his temples.

"Could you just run some tests?"

"Well, if there was a test to measure irregular amounts of snot production, and if it were at all necessary, I might consider it."

The kid was about to open his mouth and start to talk again when the door to Exam Room Two opened, revealing James Wilson as he poked his head in.

House had never been happier to see his friend.

"Hey, when you're done in here I need to talk to you," he began to leave.

"Wait," House waved him over and James closed the door, coming closer. "Mister..." he looked down at the file in his hand, "Charles Brown," he looked up at the man, "Your parents don't like you much, do they?" Charles opened his mouth again, but House continued on, "Has a stuffy and runny nose, a headache, a sore throat and a slight cough. Diagnosis?"

Wilson raised his eyebrows as he looked from doctor to patient, "He has a cold."

House gave a pointed stare to the man on the table, "Now I've had a consult. Go home." He stood up from the chair he had been seated in across from the patient jerked his head towards the door. "Let's go. Quickly before he wants me to do a full body scan."

Wilson was right behind him out of the exam room.

"I hate the clinic."

"Really? And I thought you were moved by the power of healing."

"It's hard to be inspired when all you've got to work with are morons who need Band-Aids," House gained the attention of one of the nurses working at the station, "Doctor House checks out at 4 PM. Write it down."

Wilson looked down at his watch as they headed for the elevator. "Its 3:36."

"Details. What do we need to talk about? Getting lonely? Want to come over to my apartment so we can have a sleep over again?" Greg pushed the up button on the elevator with his cane, imagining how much more satisfying it would have felt to push it into Charles Brown's nose.

"As fun as that was, no. I like getting up with enough time to make it into work in the morning. Not to mention having all of my limbs in full functioning order every morning. You really have no idea how uncomfortable your couch is, do you?"

The elevator opened, empty, and the doctors stepped inside.

"None, nor do I care. Having an awesome leather couch is more important to me than your shoulder. Cope," a slight pause, "The duck will be disappointed."

Wilson sighed. "Will you let the duck and spandex story die?"

"Never. I plan on reminding you of it as long as you find it obnoxious."

"I'll obviously have to deal with this a while then."

"Obviously."

There was a lull in the conversation as the doors opened and the men stepped out, headed for Greg's office.

"Last Thursday you had Jonathon Pratt as a patient. The case Cuddy made you take."

House looked sideways at his friend, "Yep. Common allergic reaction caused by a hypersensitivity to excess amounts of formaldehyde in thirteen year old paint. Sent him home that same day. Didn't even need to call in the wife."

"Was... was anyone else in the building effected?"

Translated from Wilsonese that meant, 'Is Julie okay?'

"As far as I know the rest of the Pratt folk are healthy and chipper, no worse for wear."

There was a visible relaxing of tension from Wilson's shoulders. "Why didn't you tell me it was him that day?"

"Didn't seem significant," House pushed open the door to his office, making his way to his desk.

"He donated a million dollars to the hospital," House sank into his chair as Wilson sat in the seat opposite, "Which I wouldn't have known about, but some of the money is going towards buying the oncology department more equipment."

"Imagine that," House picked up his yoyo and began to play with it, hoping that Wilson would drop that discussion at his evident lack of interest. This was getting far too close to feelings for his comfort.

"Now normally, since you are House, after all, you would have gloated about this fact. You don't make a million dollars for the hospital every day," a pause, "Hell, you don't lose a hundred million dollars everyday either, and we still celebrated that."

House stopped playing with the yoyo and shot his friend an irritated look, "It wasn't important. I was still caught up in the misery of having to treat the man to really care about his check-book or name."

Jimmy was smiling. "You're lying."

House glowered. So much for killing the conversation. "Okay, I admit it. I was trying this new thing out called 'tact'. Had this crazy idea that you didn't want to hear about me working my medical magic on your wife's boss a week after she left you. Since my efforts were clearly unappreciated, next time I'll be sure to not make any efforts to spare your dignity."

There was a pause, "Thanks," James looked uncomfortable. "For not mentioning it, that is."

"You're welcome." House felt uncomfortable.

The 'thanks' was more than a sign of appreciation, and they both knew it. It was an acknowledgement of two things. One, that Wilson and his wife had separated, a fact that the two had been dancing around for nearly a month. Two, that a week ago, Wilson would have been troubled by Greg taking on Pratt's case. That he hadn't been as fine as he pretended he had been.

"Julie didn't leave me."

House looked up sharply. "You left her?" He was surprised. Wilson didn't give up on people, even when it would have been infinitely better for him to do so. How else could Wilson's continued friendship with House be explained? Why else would a man lock himself up with a junkie for two months, knowing full well that when the doors were thrown open again that addict could easily continue the habit, despite all of the effort and best intentions in the world? It was Wilson's pathology, caring. And that caring made him all too aware and sensitive to how others were feeling, an empathy that made his friend, a generally intelligent individual, do stupid things. For example, his continued association with Greg.

House, himself, hated having sentimental attachments. They had their values, but for the most part they extracted too much from a person with too little reward for it. Someone who cared too much left themselves open to pain. As his leg took up most of the tolerance he had for such things, as a rule he kept his personal attachments to a minimum.

Of course, there were exceptions to every rule. Most of them had turned out poorly for House, but a few...

He glanced at Wilson.

They had been alright.

James nodded. "You were right, which should please you." He rubbed his neck. "Trying to make it better didn't make either of us happy."

Another silence. "Took you long enough," House grumbled as he flung his yoyo. "Make a note; never doubt House."

"Uh," Wilson sent him an amused look, "no. You never doubt yourself as it is. If none of the rest of us did it you'd wreck havoc everywhere you went."

"Don't I do that already?"

"Yes, but this would be unrestrained havoc. At least now we've got you localized to one unfortunate area."

"Is this how Cuddy views my employment here? A disaster waiting to happen that she has been cursed with for the overall good of society?"

Wilson stood up, "That is my suspicion, yes."

"Huh," another toss of the yoyo, "That explains a lot of her antagonism towards me." He looked down at his watch and let out a small gasp, "General Hospital is on," he frantically searched his desk for a remote.

Wilson blinked. "House, this isn't healthy,"

House shuffled some papers on his desk around, still searching.

"The Gameboy I understand. Monster Trucks? Fantastic. Yoyo? A classic hobby. All of these are perfectly acceptable obsessions in my mind. But soap operas-"

"Ah-ha!" House held up the remote in triumph, quickly turning on the television.

"It's jus-"

"Shh! Pester me at the commercial. This is going to be a good episode,"

James made his way to the door, "You're wasting your brain cells on this."

"Hey, you're the one missing out. This is drama at its best. Now would you shut up?"

A sigh, "I'm going to go check up on my patients now. You know, like doctors do."

House raised his hand and waved his fingers, signaling for his friend to leave. He heard a huff of irritation as the door closed.

Now if only Alexis would wake up from her coma...

---

"I'm amazed."

"About?"

"Your cafeteria actually has food that's edible."

Cameron smiled, "One of the many things we pride ourselves on, here at Princeton-Plainsboro."

"The saving lives thing is secondary?"

"Of course. Food always comes first."

"Ah yes. This is definitely the hospital for me. My experience has been that doctors make the person better, the food then kills the person and everyone is left generally unhappy."

"Rest assured, that won't be a problem here. Unless you get the food we give to the patients. Then we might have some issues."

"This isn't what you serve patients?"

"Afraid not."

"Well that just won't do. You're my inside source, I expect to have nothing other than these roast beef sandwiches while I'm here."

"I'll work on that,"

"Excellent." Clara took another bite of the sandwich.

"So how did you convince Mark that you should come alone?"

"Easy," a swallow, "Didn't tell him I was coming."

Allison frowned, "Clara,"

"Al, there's nothing he can do right now."

"That doesn't mean he shouldn't know,"

"Even if it's only going to worry him more? I'm just going to talk with Doctor Wilson, take some tests and then go home. There's no surgery happening, no treatment. If Mark came he would just hear all of the gruesome details, and I find his fluttering grueling already. Just imagine how bad he'll be when he so much as hears the word 'chemo'." she grinned as she picked up her sandwich again, "Not that I don't love him for it."

They were sitting at one of the tables in the cafeteria. Clara had driven down right after her last case for the day, having had no time for lunch, and was going to meet with Wilson in a half an hour. Cameron had asked the boys to cover for her and was watching her sister eat, sending what she hoped was a very disapproving look Clara's way.

"Besides, he's got his new contracting business and this is the first day he's been back at the office since I found out. No reason to bother him with trivialities."

"Your condition is hardly trivial, and you know those tests are going to leave you in bad shape. He's going to know you haven't been at work all day when you get home."

"I know," Clara set down her sandwich. "And I will tell him everything Al, you know I can't keep anything from Mark. I just need to do this alone first, without having to worry about him and how he's taking the news. You understand? I just need time to... to process the hard facts."

Cameron looked at her sister, noticing the hollows under her eyes and the quiet desperation laced throughout every feature. The way she didn't hold her hands still, full of nervous energy, anxiety. Fear?

For six days Cameron had been trying to come to terms with Clara having cancer. It wasn't the disease, not any more. That had been the first hurdle to overcome, the first motion of acceptance. She was now prepared for that particular aspect of this latest disaster, had reminded herself of the need to become aware of the functions of the illness. Prepared to re-master the art of pretending. Pretending not to worry. Pretending not to see the bruising of needles. The hair as it feel out the scalp. The deteriorating frame of one so desperately loved, pretend not to see them withering away before her very eyes. Pretending that this day didn't have the possibility of being the last.

This, she had managed to do with only a small pang of regret, a momentary reminder of Brian and his smile, his face and hair. The way he would hold her close on cold nights and sing songs in the shower, but quietly, thinking that she couldn't hear him.

The fact that this disease, this illness, was directly related to Clara, well, that was taking a bit more time to process. Her sister didn't help, with her ready smile and joking manner, easily saying words like 'chemo' and 'mastectomy' without so much as a faltering grin. It was hard to associate that familiar happy demeanor and the fearless facade with the tumor that was slowly killing her. With every smirk and joke, Clara had been reinforcing Allison's denial, allowing her to believe that nothing was wrong. Since Clara sounded fine over the phone, seemed alright mentally, able to joke and laugh and ignore the disease, there was no problem. There was cancer, and the sister she loved certainly had it, but Clara would be fine. Clara was fine. She had been so busy trying to convince herself that Clara had been well that she hadn't noticed that she wasn't. That each smile was strained, every joke half-hearted and forced. That even as Clara reassured those around her, told them exactly what they needed to hear (it was her job, after all), she would lose a little more energy, become a bit more tired.

Of course Clara wouldn't want Mark here. Allison wasn't the only one pretending, wasn't the only one nearly exhausted by it.

"I'm sorry," Allison grabbed Clara's hand from across the table, squeezing it. "Do whatever you think is best."

Clara squeezed back and smiled, narrowing her eyes, "You just had a revelation, didn't you?"

Cameron let go of the hand with a grin, "Maybe a small one."

"Hm, I seem to inspire a lot of those in people..."

"Or you force them out of your patients by sheer force of will."

"That too," the eyes remained narrowed, "Are you alright?"

"I distinctly recall telling you that you were not to worry about anyone save for yourself and getting better."

"And you thought I'd listen? Al, I thought you knew me better. I'm a mother and a psychologist. All I do is worry. I'm paid to worry. Hell, I run an organization of psychologists. I pay other people to worry."

"Pay them to worry for you and hire a nanny," Cameron looked at the big clock set above the entryway to the cafeteria. "You ready to go meet Wilson?"

Clara's hands were busy, clearing off the table, gathering her leftovers and piling them and her garbage on to her tray, "Yep, I should probably get going, actually. I'm supposed to meet him in office in about," she looked up at the clock, "Three minutes. Late to my first cancer meeting. Perfect."

"Here," Allison grabbed her sister's tray and looped her arm through Clara's, halting the nervous movements. "I'll take you there before I go back to work. The boys can cover me for a few more minuets." She felt some of the tension in the psychologist lessen as she bussed the tray and headed for the elevator.

"That would be nice. Knowing my luck, I'd end up getting lost. Do you think he'll be upset?"

"Doctor Wilson?" Cameron resisted the urge to laugh, "No, I don't think so." She pressed the up button. "Do you remember me talking about House?"

Clara gave her an amused look, "Your sarcastic misanthropic boss with a limp and cane who you pined after for a year? Might have heard of him, once or twice."

Cameron blushed, "Yes, well. Wilson is his best friend,"

"Really?"

"Yep," the elevator door opened, "And House's levels of callousness can only be matched by how nice Wilson is."

"That's reassuring," the sisters stepped into the lift. She paused, thinking. "It must take a special breed to put up with what that man does on a consistent basis, based on the stories you've told me. I'm glad I'll be able to meet him," she tilted her head, "I think I need to meet Doctor House too. He seems like an interesting character."

---

Wilson was sitting in his office, waiting for his newest patient, Clara Samson, to arrive. She was a few minutes late, but that wasn't surprising. Most of his patients were, the first day.

It was one thing to say you had cancer. That was always difficult. But what was infinitely harder was coming to terms with it. Accepting the harsh realities of the disease, removing it from an abstract concept and applying it to one's self. Unfortunately, he and his office were the first step of recognition.

He always saw it happen, the moment when a person went from knowing they had an ailment to recognizing that they had cancer. It was an experience both inspiring and heartbreaking, to see the steely resolve enter the spirit, the reserves of strength and determination called into play. And to see the hope for a miracle die, the internal acknowledgement that the end could be near.

That was generally the hardest thing to accept, that every day from there on out should lived as if it was the last, because it very well could be.

Wilson exhaled and rubbed his neck. Oncology was not a specialty for doctors unable to handle the unpleasant aspects of medicine. The death and the tears and hopelessness, the need to concede to the fact that sometimes there was nothing that could be done.

Most doctors didn't believe in God, and why should they? They bested His efforts to end lives, constantly out-smarting Him and bringing people back from the edge of death. God certainly had nothing on them. But in oncology, where if you were lucky half of your patients lived for another decade, the belief seemed to be mandatory, and Wilson was no exception, although he'd hardly call himself overly religious. Sure, he kept his yarmulke under his bed and took it out when his mother threatened to beat him upside the head unless he wore it, but he hadn't been to a synagogue in years. His belief was less about faith and more about comfort. It was reassuring to believe that when there was nothing left to be done some higher power would lovingly accept the ones that couldn't be saved into His arms and care for them.

Most doctors, however, thought that James was overly sentimental.

Not many people understood why Wilson had wanted to work in cancer. Julie certainly hadn't, but then, Julie had never understood a lot of things about him.

She was gone now. Had moved out of the apartment, taken her things and disappeared. He had gone over one day when he knew she would be at work to get some clean clothes, entering to find that every trace of her had vanished. The crystal candle holders she had bought, the rug in the entryway, her clothes and jewelry. All gone.

It was almost as if she had never been there to begin with. It was disturbing, to think that with the removal of some simple objects it made it seem as if the past five years had never happened, that his life with someone could be so easily erased. It bothered him, his home becoming an alien force bent on making him acknowledge his renewed state of bachelorhood, almost daring him to celebrate it, since he clearly wasn't as forlorn by Julie's absence as he should have been.

He resisted the urge, staying at the office later than usual, catching up on paper work until the early hours of morning and then going home and staring at his ceiling for several hours, unable to sleep.

But, at least his shoulder was no longer suffering the ill-effects of nights on House's couch. Would it have really killed the man to buy a sofa that didn't leave one questioning the state of their joints in the morning? Leather was classic, but it sure as hell wasn't very comfortable.

Just then he heard a knock on the door.

"Come in," the door opened to reveal a woman of a slightly above average height, sharp features, auburn hair and brown eyes. Behind her stood Doctor Cameron, who gave her sister a kiss on the cheek and waved to Wilson before turning outside of the door and heading down the hallway.

The woman smiled, "Doctor James Wilson?"

"Doctor Clara Samson?"

They both grinned and Wilson stood up behind his desk, shaking his new patient's hand before she took a seat across from him.

"Oh, adding the title. Very nice. But, please, feel free not to mention the whole 'PhD' thing. You're the doctor, I'm a shrink. I don't want people to get confused and come to me when they have a heart attack."

Wilson grinned and sat as well, "It sounds like you've had an unfortunate experience with this."

She gave him a rueful look, "Once, someone had an attack outside of our building and their wife saw the plaque on the entrance. Came running up, expecting us to save her husband when all we could really do is call the ambulance and calm her down."

Wilson winced in sympathy, "Ah, hysterical wives. Always a joy,"

"Always," Clara began to fiddle with the bag she had in her lap, "I'm sorry I was late, I lost track of time talking with Al."

Wilson raised an eyebrow, "Al?"

"Oh, right, sorry. Allison. Cameron, I think you call her?"

"Right," Wilson continued smiling, "We tend to forget the people actually have first names here."

"I've noticed. If it wasn't for the sign on your door I wouldn't have known yours."

James grinned and looked up at Clara again, "Well we can't go around talking to one another like we're normal people, after all. It would break our top-secret doctor guidelines,"

Clara snorted, "Oh no, couldn't have that. It would almost be like putting you on the same level as us common folk,"

"Exactly, and we're against that here at Princeton-Plainsboro," Wilson was surprised at her sense of humor. It was refreshing, if misleading. Most of his patients entered his office on the brink of tears, even before he had said something, and any of his attempts at humor or small talk would not have been appreciated. Here was a woman who seemed determined not to allow her condition to destroy her temperament, but obviously still afraid of it. Stalling, after all, only worked for so long.

Wilson grabbed her file on his desk, "Are you ready to start?"

"Had to ruin it, didn't you?" Clara heaved a sigh, "Yes, I suppose that would be the best thing to do. It is why I'm here, after all."

"If you want we can continue with our conversation," Wilson said with a smirk, "I've got no other patient interviews for the day and I'm dying to figure out how 'Al' is the most fitting nickname for Cameron." He fingered the file, "But we can't avoid this forever."

She was looking at the file herself, where his hand rested on it. "Nor should we," the steel had entered her voice, the hope left her frame. Another moment of heartbreak and strength.

She shot him a smile, "But remind me and I'll tell you that story later. Very entertaining."

"Will do," Wilson looked down at the file. "Mrs. Samson-"

"Clara," she smirked at his confused expression, "Just because you're my doctor doesn't mean I'm going to let you get formal on me. We were having a lovely discussion as friends and I plan on encouraging more of them in the future. Plus, I want to break you out of that horrible habit you doctors have,"

Wilson grinned briefly, before becoming serious once more. "Clara, you have stage Three A breast cancer."

---

Cameron stood around the corner from Wilson's office, occasionally poking her head out to see if anyone had left the room yet.

She felt ridiculous. Like a five year old spying on her parents.

She wasn't trying to be a snoop, but she wanted to talk to Wilson, and she doubted she would have the time later in the day. However, she didn't want Clara to see her and think that she didn't trust her older sister to handle the meeting on her own.

Hence the continuous ducking around the corner.

A nurse walked by just as Allison was sneaking another look. She grinned sheepishly at the frown being sent her way.

"This isn't a playground, Doctor."

"Sorry," as soon as the nurse had gone out of sight Cameron poked her head out again.

She was thirty-one years old and this was what she had been reduced to.

She perked up when she heard the distinct sound of her sister's voice.

"So I wont be undergoing any treatment today?"

"No, we want to retake some tests that you've already done with Doctor Marshal, just to double check. Jane," Cameron briefly looked around the corner to see Wilson signaling one of the nurses, "could you please prep Clara for an MRI?"

"Yes Doctor," the nurse took Clara's arm gently, "This way ma'am."

"I'll be with you in a few minutes, just need to fill out some of the paper-work."

"Alright. See you in a bit Jim,"

Cameron smiled. Clara has a twenty minuet meeting with the man, and about cancer no less, and they're already on a first-name basis. Allison works with him for two years, and still feels awkward addressing him without his title.

Speaking of which… Cameron looked around the corner again to see Wilson about to re-enter his office.

"Doctor Wilson?" She walked out from around the corner.

"Doctor Cameron," Wilson looked from her to the corner she had just appeared from, "Were you… Hiding?"

Cameron blushed, "No," she muttered.

Wilson grinned, "It's okay if you were. Some of the nurses up here," he whistled, "very scary."

Allison smiled back, "Are you teasing me?"

"Only a little bit," he gave her a guilty look.

"Hm. You better be careful 'Jim'," he gave a sideways smile at the new nickname, "My older sister's going to be spending a mighty large amount of time with you. She might accidentally slip something nasty into your morning coffee for causing her sweet little sibling pain."

"Well, 'Al'," she gave an internal groan. Her family would never let her live down her tomboy phase, "I'll be sure to double-check my coffee for rat poison for now on."

"I was thinking something more along the lines of a laxative."

Wilson laughed, "Death would be better,"

"But would you deserve it? Embarrassing me so thoroughly deserves a fate just as humiliating. Death would be too good for you."

They smiled at one another. This was, most likely, the first normal conversation the two had ever had. Wilson wasn't trying to pass on his wisdom, there was no patient that they needed to save, no resurfacing of old mistakes to analyze.

Cameron found herself enjoying it immensely.

She had nothing to hide from Wilson, no act to maintain. He already knew, and he wouldn't exploit or mock her, as she was certain House would. He wouldn't treat her as if she was made of glass, like Foreman and Chase, walk on eggshells for fear of upsetting her. And unlike Clara, his health wouldn't suffer if she let him know just how worried she was. It was a relief, to be able to joke with him as if he were a normal person, a friend instead of a colleague.

It made her feel light, the teasing discussion, as if the rest of the world and its troubles had disappeared. As if every burden had been lifted from her shoulders and she had been left to float above them.

"Peace! I beg you," Wilson was still grinning, "Was there something you wanted to ask me before I began to rudely mock your… Roost."

Unfortunate, that she couldn't stay there.

Cameron let the last traces of relief leave her, "I'm sorry to bother you but-"

"Cameron, you know I can't talk to you about your sister's condition,"

"Oh, it's not that," Cameron looked up sharply, "I would never ask you to break doctor-patient confidentiality. I just wanted to thank you for not telling House about this."

"Ah yes. I figured you wouldn't want our residential insensitive git involved," he paused, "Has he been bothering you?"

She gave a rueful smile, "No more than usual."

--

It had been last week, after Foreman and Chase had gotten back from checking the building Pratt had the attack in. She was in the lab, analyzing the paint they had spent three hours locating, checking for abnormal levels of toxic chemicals, when House had entered, limping up next to her as she studied the paint under the microscope.

"So… What's wrong?"

Cameron had looked up at him, mildly panicked. "Wrong?"

House nodded, "Yeah, that was the question. This is where you answer."

She turned back to the microscope, "Nothing's wrong."

Cameron no longer knew how she felt about House. Which was reassuring, in a sense, because she had never known what he felt about her. At least this way she saw their feelings towards one another as identical, if confusing.

More often than not her boss would ignore her until he had an errand for her to run or he was bored and needed to torment someone. But every now and then he would take a deeper interest into her affairs, become determined to know the comings and goings of her life. In anyone else, this would have been concern, but with House nothing was certain. To him, it was probably just another puzzle or distraction to amuse himself with.

She had long since given up on any feelings she might have had for him. Even if he returned those feelings, which Cameron was convinced that he did, he would never admit to them, making her pining pointless.

Cameron was, despite the common misconception, very practical. As soon as it became apparent that House would never return her sentiments in any tangible way, she had done her best to ignore them. To force them away, make them disappear. She had been somewhat successful. But she couldn't help the flutter in her stomach every time he came near her, couldn't help the small flicker of hope that appeared every time he showed an interest in her that was not strictly professional.

Now, however, she was just annoyed.

House sighed and pulled the microscope out from under Cameron's nose. "See, I know everybody lies, but most people lie well."

Cameron crossed her arms over her chest and glared. "The longer you keep me from doing my job the longer we have Pratt in the hospital."

He gave her a piercing look, ignoring her statement. "It's one thing not to tell me when something's bothering you, but you haven't talked to Chase or Foreman either. So not only is something wrong," he pulled the microscope away again as Cameron made a grab for it, "You're trying to pretend it's not."

"House," she took in a deep breath. "Even if something is wrong, it isn't any of your business."

"You work for me. When it affects your performance here it's my concern."

"My performance at work is fine," she glared, "You're just curious, want to see what's pushing my buttons this time."

He look outraged, "That's not t-" a slight pause and head tilt, "Well maybe it is true,"

Cameron scowled, ignoring the slight twinge of disappointment she felt, and took the microscope back from him, "Go to your office and play on your Gameboy," she peered, again, at the substance. "I'll have the results in an hour or so."

She heard the door close on his way out.

--

"He is bothering you," Wilson frowned.

"Don't worry," Allison grinned up at him, abandoning the memory, "nothing I can't handle. After two and a half years, you get used to it."

"Well that's good. I was afraid I was the only person who was capable of building up my Greg-tolerance level."

There was an awkward silence. The mention of House seemed to have this effect on most conversations.

"Well," Cameron looked at a clock on the wall, "I better go. Need to get back to the lab, we think the patient has lupus."

"Lupus?" Wilson pretended to be shocked, "O my, yes! Go! Why on Earth are you speaking with me when you have such exciting trials ahead?"

Cameron laughed, "My thoughts exactly. Thank you again, Doctor Wilson."

"You're welcome, again."

And with that the two turned their separate ways, Wilson going back into his office and Cameron speeding down to the lab.

---

Foreman and Chase were huddled over a computer screen, staring at the results of the test.

Foreman looked up, "It's definitely lupus."

"Yep," Chase stretched in his seat and yawned, "One of us should go tell the patient."

Neither made a move to do so.

"I did it last time," Foreman said as he spun around in his chair. "Besides, I don't think I can stand playing sensitive caring doctor anymore." Foreman was exhausted, having spent the majority of the morning in the clinic and then all of the afternoon running tests on their latest case.

If he had to reassure one more person that, yes, they would be fine, no they were not dying and that he would do everything in his power to see that they were cured as quickly as possible, he might do something violent with his stethoscope. Most likely, strangle the next patient he saw with it.

"Well I talked to the one before that."

"Alright, Franklin can wait for Cameron to get back from lunch then."

Chase smirked, "Starting to understand why House hates patients?"

Foreman glared, "I don't hate patients," he covered his face with his hand, "I just can't stand being near them right now."

He heard Chase chuckling.

He removed his hand and glowered. "And that's not what bothers me about House and his patient care."

"Oh really? You're not even a bit bitter that whereas you have to pretend to be glad to treat people House doesn't even put up the effort?"

"No. I don't care if he likes the people he treats. It would just be nice if he remembered that they are human beings and not his own personal puzzles to play around with."

"Why do you care if he dehumanizes them?"

"Why don't you?"

"He gets the job done."

"That doesn't excuse the humiliation he puts them through."

"Look," Chase sat up in his chair, "It would be one thing if he was an asshole and then his patients died. But they don't. Nine times out of ten he cures a person who, if they had any other doctor, would have been toast."

"So because he's good at what he does he gets to be a miserable bastard?"

"Why not?" Chase laced his fingers behind his head, leaning back again, "It's not as if they're forced to have House treating them, most of our cases request him specifically. If he's a jerk, it's nothing more than what they asked for."

"Card carrying member," Foreman mumbled under his breath.

"What was that?"

"Nothing," Foreman sighed. "Where is Cameron anyway? If she was just grabbing a late lunch she should be back by now."

Chase was about to answer when a jarring knock came from one of the glass walls of the lab.

House smirked at their startled expressions, entering the testing area. "Ah, making the minions jump," he sat down in a vacant chair, "It's the simple things that make life worth living."

Chase gestured towards the computer, "Franklin has lupus like we thought."

"Boring, but convenient. Give him the news and send him home," House looked around the lab, "This might sound crazy, but isn't there supposed to be another one of you around here? A bit smaller and annoyingly sincere?"

"She's getting a late lu-" Foreman's explanation was interrupted by Cameron's entrance into the lab.

She looked at all of them suspiciously, seeing them all huddled together in a close circle.

"Did I miss something?"

"We were having a Super Cool Doctor's Club meeting. It was going fantastically well until you came and brought your cooties. Now it's ruined," House looked depressed.

Cameron rolled her eyes. "Does Franklin have lupus?"

"Yep," Chase grinned, "You get to tell him."

A sigh, "Alright," Cameron started to leave.

"Wait," House sat up in his chair as Cameron turned around, looking at his team intently.

"I just talked to Cuddy. The prat is back."

The three younger doctors stared at one another.

"Is he referring to himself?" Foreman looked at his teammates hopefully, "Cause if he is, my day will be made."

"Maybe its Cuddy," Chase suggested.

House gave them an irritated look, "Our patient from last week."

"Oh," Chase again.

"That does make more sense," Cameron offered.

Foreman grinned, "That's a matter of opinion."

House ignored them. "He had another attack. Either he's decided to coat his house with formaldehyde or we made a mistake."


	4. A Trail Behind Me

**Drenched**

**Summary**: House enjoys the company of a patient- obviously signaling the apocalypse, Wilson is getting a divorce, Chase is falling head over heals, Foreman's thinking of leaving the team and Cameron's sister has cancer. At least it's not raining. Yet.

**Disclaimer**: I once tried to steal House. Didn't work out too well. To make a long story short, all I have to show for my efforts is a rug-burn in an unmentionable location and a corkscrew. -sad sigh- It still ain't mine. House belongs to David Shore and Fox. "It Doesn't Get Much Better Than This" belongs to Nicole Burdette.

**Author's Note**: I had every intention of updating on Sunday, but I found myself more occupied than usual this weekend. My apologies.

Have just realized that Cameron's name is spelled "Allison" and not "Alison". -sigh- I'll go back and change everything the next time I update, as I'm a bit too busy right now. But from here-on-out, no more single 'l'!

If you were waiting for a good time to read "Her Name Was", this would be it. It isn't at all necessary, but it does have a wee bit of extra information.

My medical knowledge has not increased since the last chapter, despite my best attempts to become an M.D. over the internet in a week. -sad sigh-

Again, General Hospital information is invalid/made up on the spot. House would be ashamed.

This story is cannon-compatible up to "Skin Deep".

Thank you to everyone who has reviewed! You guys make my day. -grin-

And on that note, Reviews/Reviewers are loved.

Thank you and enjoy!

---

**Chapter Three: A Trail Behind Me**

_And I want everything before you to follow us  
Like a trail behind me.  
-Nicole Burdette_

---

Cuddy's current headache had been building for exactly five days.

It began when the third richest man in the country had been readmitted to her ER.

Readmitted.

As in, he had been in, released, and then put back in again. Like a reoccurring nightmare, one could say.

This was not good. This, in fact, was disastrous. Especially since that with one of the richest men in the world came the media. And with the media came rumors. And with rumors of incompetence on the hospital's part came a loss of credibility, causing them to lose patients, investors and money.

This was why Lisa was sitting behind Greg House's desk, waiting for the doctor to return. She needed, the hospital needed, him to pull a rabbit out of a hat, because if he didn't, they were ruined.

This was not a comfortable position for Cuddy to be in. She wanted plenty of things from House, sure. She wanted him to fill out his paper-work, fulfill his obligations at the clinic without her having to resort to brute intimidation or blackmail, wanted him to be at least mildly civil to his patients...

These were all things Lisa wanted from him. That would have been nice to have, but certainly not necessary. She made it a point to need nothing that Greg could give her.

Until now, when she was left with no choice but to place the fate of her hospital in the hands of a man as unpredictable as the weather with the potential to be just as dangerous.

Cuddy's head gave a throb.

She looked up to see House through the glass wall, and viewed with amusement the exaggerated sigh and pained look on his face just before he opened the door.

"Doctor Cuddy!" Lisa didn't miss the false cheer infused in every word as she stood up from his chair. He nodded to her sweater-covered chest, "Girls." He brought his gaze back to her face, "Glad to see you've taken my advice. They look more rested now. But the hair," he eyed her hairline, "that worries me. Been working with Einstein's stylist?"

Lisa put a hand to her head and smoothed down her hair self-consciously, narrowing her eyes. "It's raining. My hair frizzes."

"O, well, it's the humidity that does it," he mimicked her action, running his fingers through his own locks, "I develop a charming afro every now and then."

Cuddy glared.

"I'm not too sure how well it works with my bone structure, but Foreman says the chicks dig it." He winked suggestively.

"Well we all know how much Foreman's out to improve your love life."

"Naturally," he lowered his voice and leaned in closer, "Personally, I think he has some conflicted feelings when it comes to our relationship. Give it time, I'll be getting boxes of chocolates from him any day now." He made his way around her to his chair, sitting down and lifting his right leg onto his desk before throwing the other over it. "So was there a reason why you came, or did you just want to gossip? Because I heard that Nurse Brenda and Kevin from bookkeeping have got something going on-"

"How is Pratt's case going?"

"Swimmingly."

Lisa blinked when nothing else appeared to be forthcoming. "What's been done?"

"Oh, you know," House waved one hand around while he grabbed his Gameboy out with the other, "This and that. The usual,"

He had never been able to tell when she wasn't playing one of their games. Cuddy pulled the electronic toy out of his hands, "House," she stared at him intently, "Tell me."

"O dear," House said as he slowly pulled down his leg from its elevated position, "Mommy's worried," he shot her an interested look, "Why?"

"Can't you just answer the question?"

"As soon as you answer mine,"

Cuddy sighed, "We're losing investors, House. The media's all over Pratt's case. They're saying that we botched something, made him get worse. I'm fighting tooth and nail to keep cameras out of here, my sanity can't take another episode like the one we had with the TB guy, and they think I'm trying to cover-up our 'poor facilities'," she paused, taking a deep breath, "Our reputation is being destroyed, and along with that our money is being taken away. Meaning, if it gets much worse I'm not sure how we're going to keep this hospital running after the end of the year."

House wasn't looking at her, but instead focused his gaze on the handle of his cane. His silence made Cuddy uneasy. A loud and annoying House was obnoxious, but Cuddy knew how to deal with him. Sarcastic commentary and witty comebacks were her specialty. A silent and pensive House, however, was unpredictable and reflective, often signaling the arrival of emotionally loaded topics. And Cuddy had never done well with emotions.

"Haven't reporters been bothering you?"

"O, was that what they were?" House smacked his forehead, "I thought they were med students. An easy mistake to make, with their pads of paper, pens and annoying enthusiasm."

Lisa raised an eyebrow, "And you've not had to give an interview because...?"

"A combination of things really. Lots of ducking behind corners. I've started pointing behind them and when they look I make my escape. A few I've scared away just by glaring at them," he smiled, closing his eyes and sighing softly, as if recalling a fond memory. "The looks on their faces were priceless." A pause and a wider grin, "And when those tactics didn't work, general avoidance seemed to do the trick."

"What about reading the paper? Watching the news?"

House looked up, "Only read the comics, only watch the cartoons. And monster trucks and General Hospital, of course. Everything else is a waste of my time," he leaned back into his chair. "Pointless drivel."

"Or the current state of affairs around the world,"

"Like I said, drivel," he leaned up, "Pratt doesn't have a neurological problem. Wilson checked for cancer the day he was readmitted and said he came back clear, no auto-immune deficiency, and it doesn't appear to be a genetic issue. He's never been out of the country and neither has his wife, so we can't blame some obscure foreign disease," he paused, "Which is a shame, because they're so much fun. I suppose we could find out about some infidelities, but none of the sexually transmitted diseases accounts for his symptoms." He shook his head sadly, "Damn shame. His vitals are all stable and Cameron observed him last night and said everything was normal. So, it seems we were right. It was an allergic reaction. We just don't know what to. We're keeping him here to be certain that it's environmental. I'll be sending two of the kids over to his crib later today and they'll check it out. See if anything looks familiar from the office, maybe steal a stereo or two. You know, the usual."

Torn between irritation and an intense feeling of thanks, Cuddy decided to go with the more unassuming emotion. "Thank you," she was reassured. At least House was actually doing his job, although he did his best to hide that fact. If the hospital went bankrupt, it wouldn't be for his lack of trying. She mentally reviewed the list he gave her, "You said that Cameron was here all night?"

"Yep. Unless she snuck out of the bathroom window again," he sighed, "I really hope she grows out of this rebellious phase. Chase is such a good little boy, and Foreman's just so smart... Where did we go wrong with her? "

Ignoring the commentary, "I just saw Cameron in the clinic."

"Does that mean that we really are good parents?"

Cuddy glared, "You're letting her work in the clinic when she hasn't slept in over twenty-four hours?"

House raised his eyebrows, "If I say 'no' will you believe it?"

"House! This is a law-suit waiting to happen! She makes a mistake treating one of the patients and we'll have to pay through our noses,"

"Like the car insurance after Chase got in that accident?"

Cuddy's head throbbed again. "Go down to the clinic and take her place,"

He whined, "But-but-,"

"I expect you to be there in a half an hour," Cuddy said as she placed his Gameboy on his desk, "and if you're not I will come and hunt you down." She made her way to the door, "And I'll make sure you work in there for four hours instead of two."

She caught House's face contorted into a comical scowl through the glass on the way back to her office.

It was perhaps wrong, how much she enjoyed making him suffer.

---

"I just walked past Cuddy and she had a very satisfied smile on her face," Wilson took up his chair across from House, "This doesn't bode well for you."

House rubbed his brow and grumbled, "She's making me take Cameron's place in the clinic in a half an hour."

"Didn't she stay here all night?"

"Yep,"

Wilson groaned, "Do you try to torment Cuddy? I swear that sometimes it can be the only explanation for the things you do,"

House was only half-listening as his friend continued his rant, thinking on the conversation with Cuddy.

She was convinced that the hospital was on its way to ruin, as expected, because Cuddy was the sort of person who couldn't imagine the hospital running without her. House, however, knew better. The hospital would be fine. A little closer to the poverty line, perhaps, but medical care wasn't going out of style. Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital would go on.

Cuddy would not. There were people pulling her strings just as she was pulling House's now, and they would be very displeased with the reduced sum of money reaching their wallets. Her job, and his, was on the line.

Oh, he didn't need to worry about being fired right off of the bat like Cuddy, but given a few months he had no doubts that he would be the next to pack his bags. Under Cuddy, House had everything he ever wanted from his job. He took the cases he wanted when he wanted them, he had a highly qualified team working under him, he was challenged on a consistent basis and he had respect. If any other head of medicine took Cuddy's job he could kiss all of it goodbye. No other boss would allow him the benefits he had now, and, admittedly, likely no other would be willing to keep him employed there. House didn't pretend that he was an easy person to work with. He doubted anyone other than Cuddy could put up with what he did with unwavering regularity. Except for Wilson, of course.

House glanced at his friend, who had just finished his tirade.

"Done?"

Wilson glared, "You didn't listen to a thing I said, did you?"

"I got the, 'only explanation for what you do' bit, but after that, not a word."

Wilson slumped further in his seat and deflated slightly, "Why do I even try to instill within you a shred of consideration towards others?"

"No idea," House said as he picked up his Gameboy, "I often ask myself the same question. I can only assume its some tip in the Boy Wonder handbook. 'Convert the miscreants of the world into productive, kind and generous persons,'" House chanted merrily as he attacked a space-monkey. "'Or, failing that, bother them to the brink of insanity.' Sound familiar?"

Wilson grunted in annoyance as he stood, obviously intending to ignore the statement, "Is there any coffee in here? The oncology lounge didn't have any and I've run out at home,"

"Nope. Cameron hasn't been up yet," House used his ray gun to blast a particularly nasty alien.

He heard Jimmy sigh from above him, "You need to stop treating that woman like a secretary," House looked up quickly to see Wilson making his way to the other room, "Where do you keep the filters?"

"Cabinet under the sink." Damn. Dead again. "Since you seem so eager to take her place, the position's all yours," he began a new game.

"Ha," Wilson's elevated voice sounded from the next room, "Funny. I'm only doing this because if I don't get an energy boost I'll be sleeping in my office by lunch." House heard the beans being poured into the machine, "You know how I am without my coffee."

"You could always switch to speed." Oh, lookie; a bonus level.

"Too cliché."

"And our Jimmy is nothing if not original," House gave a fleeting look up from his game to see a small woman with short brown hair glimpse from side to side in the hallway, obviously searching for someone.

Chase had given him a description frightfully similar to this woman's features earlier in the week.

"Crap."

"What was that?" James asked from the conference room.

"Wilson, get in here. If it looks like I'm in a meeting she'll probably leave me alone. Chase said she was ridiculously polite."

"Who?" Wilson raised his voice over the distinct sound of processing coffee.

"Pratt's wife is in the hallway reading signs on doors. She's looking for me."

"Well if you didn't avoid patients like an infectious disease-"

"Patients _are_ infectious diseases. Or they have one, making them just as undesirable," the woman was slowly coming closer, "Damnit Wilson, get in here!"

"Can't. Coffee's not done." House could hear the smirk in his voice.

"Traitor," he rapidly put the Gameboy in his pocket and stooped behind his computer screen, attempting to look busy.

"You know you wouldn't pass up an opportunity like this if you were in my shoes," the coffee machine was still buzzing in the background.

"But you're supposed to be morally superior to me; bigger than petty attempts to torture your friend." She had spotted his office now.

"Sorry," he sure as hell didn't sound sorry, "The potential entertainment value here is just too high. There is also the, admittedly small, fact that she has a right to ask questions of the physician attending her husband. And go figure, you're one of those, aren't you?"

Before House could respond with a properly sarcastic comment, the door had opened.

"Doctor House?" She was silent, deciding to press on when he said nothing, "I'm Jonathon Pratt's wife and I was just wonder-"

"A little busy," House typed gibberish onto a blank word document.

"I'll only take up a moment of your time," the woman warily stepped inside of the office, inching closer to House's desk.

"A moment that could be better spent working on… this." More furious typing.

There was silence for a beat and House looked up hopefully, thinking that she might had left.

Instead, he saw her leaning over his desk, getting a clear view of the document.

She was smiling, "As absorbing as… that appears to be, I really must insist."

House coughed and minimized the typing, "It's in the rough draft stages." He heard a snort from the other room as the buzz from the coffee machine stopped.

He glared at Mrs. Pratt, "What do you want?"

She gulped. "I want to know what my husband's condition is and his current diagnosis."

There was a small crash from the other room.

"You didn't destroy any of my coffee cups, did you?" House yelled into the other room.

"They're fine," Wilson hollered back, his voice slightly strained

Mrs. Pratt looked over her shoulder, startled.

House raised an eyebrow in amusement, "My secretary," she turned back to him, a pensive look on her face. "Your husband is stable and he's had an allergic reaction. Twice."

"You do know that he is allergic to pollen, peanuts, dogs and is hypersensitive to most concentrated chemicals?"

House rolled his eyes, "Yes, I am aware of this. Was he outside, eating peanuts, around a dog or snorting pesticides during his attacks?"

Mrs. Pratt blushed and looked down at her feet, "I don't know about the first episode, but not during the second."

"Then it must have been something else," House pulled his Gameboy out of his pocket, "Now go back to your husband and let us do our jobs."

"But I'm his wife, and a doctor. I might be able to give you information that could hel-"

"It's unlikely you can tell us anything we don't already know," House said, back to attacking space-monkeys, "Go back to your husband."

He heard a thump and a splash and looked up sharply. He quickly observed a coffee mug and its spilt contents in the entryway between the two rooms and the tail end of Wilson's lab coat as he turned a corner down the hallway.

House blinked. "Well that was rude."

Mrs. Pratt was staring at the last spot James had been before he disappeared, "Who was that?"

"My secretary again. Such incompetence… He's definitely getting a pay cut."

She turned around and stared at him intently, displaying the first real backbone he had seen from the woman, "Secretaries don't wear lab coats. Who was that?"

House frowned. "Doctor James Wilson, head of the Oncology Department."

She paled.

House turned off his game and leaned forward, "How do you know him?"

Mrs. Pratt backed away from the desk and House, still looking pale. "I'm going to my husband. If you need me, please find me there."

She fumbled with the door before pushing it open, fleeing almost as quickly as Wilson had.

House sat in his seat for several moments, thinking. Abruptly, he stuck his Gameboy in his pocket and grabbed his cane where he had placed it earlier, standing up and limping out of his office.

The clinic and Cameron could wait. This was far too interesting to ignore.

---

If it had been anyone else, he would have been able to continue on with his day as if nothing was wrong.

But it hadn't been anyone else, it was her.

He had known it was her when he heard her voice. Oddly deep for a woman of such a meek manner and small size, it carried a hint of husk in its tones, a small promise of something more than what met the eye. A deeper, far more guarded, aspect of personality that the casual observer would miss.

Jimmy dismissed it. Although the voice had surprised him, causing him to fumble with the cup he had been grabbing as he was momentarily reminded of her, he knew better than to jump to conclusions. More likely than not his thoughts of Julie had reminded him of her, caused her to be at the forefront of his mind.

He picked up the mug he had dropped and continued to listen, ignoring the small instant presence in his head that said, _It is her. It is. Who else has that voice?_

He shook himself again. It couldn't be her. Simply couldn't. By the time he had reached the entryway he had convinced himself so thoroughly of this that he was completely unprepared when he saw that it could and was.

She was short, almost laughably so. Coming up to most people's chests, she had to crane her neck in order to maintain any sort of conversation with even a person of average size. She said it was why she was determined to work with children, as they, at least for a few years, couldn't look down on her.

Her hair was an unremarkable brown, kept short, as she knew that it was nothing extraordinary and was much less bothersome when it didn't get into her eyes.

Her spine was straight, her stance containing a muted elegance that many wouldn't notice. It was only when she moved that it became obvious, the languid but purposeful way she went about every motion, the soft grace that touched everything she came in contact with.

Her face, although he couldn't see it, at first appeared ordinary. Small, almost pinched, features on a face that seemed much too big for them. Except for her eyes; those were large, their brown depths seeming to span forever.

And just seeing her felt like being hit by a bus, by a train. Like being at the center of a hurricane bent solely on unsettling him from his personal perch, a perilous footing that he had only recently fully regained. The sight of her brought back feelings he had tried to suppress for over a decade. The nearly unbearable love, the memories of nights of wine and conversations, the fierce affection the shared. The guilt. The self-loathing that penetrated every aspect of who he was, what he had become.

He must not forget that shame. It, more than anything else, had persisted in the time they had been separated, and it came back now to him in full force.

He couldn't look at her, couldn't stay in the same room with her. What could he say to her to make it better? How could he face her, after what he had done?

He couldn't.

On some unconscious level, Wilson knew he was panicking, that he was being irrational and stupid, not really thinking out what he was doing. He just couldn't push aside the dread long enough to care. Without a thought Wilson dropped the coffee cup and fled.

He didn't stop until he closed the door to his office with a bit more force than was strictly necessary, sitting down on his couch and rubbing his neck with one hand while leaning his forehead against the other.

---

House was hobbling his way down the oncology floor, heading for Wilson's office. James was nothing if not a man of habit, and in times of strife he went to one of two places. House's apartment, or his own workplace. Proximity implied that Jimmy would currently be sulking in his office.

But why.

Wilson was not the sort to be easily spooked, easily scared away. He had dealt with House at his worst and not flinched for a second. He told perfectly good and hard-working people every day that they were dying with a heart-wrenching empathy that had to cause him as much pain as his patients, and never faltered. But he sees a woman roughly the size of a leprechaun and he runs out of the room in a fit.

Wilson knew her, that much was obvious. But from where? And what on earth had she done to him, or had he done to her, to warrant their reactions to one another?

He had to know.

Hence the fast pace. He just hoped he got to Jimmy while he was in the middle of his inner turmoil. Those were the best times to get the truth out of him.

Unfortunately, in the midst of his plotting an upsetting sound reached Greg's ears.

_Tap-taptap-taptap-tap_.

No, it couldn't have been a half an hour already.

_Tap-tap._

He briefly considered praying to God. He had to understand how important this was to Greg. The opportunity to delve into Wilson's private life didn't come up nearly often enough, and here was the perfect opportunity…

"Gregory House!"

Dammit. Stupid God.

She was just getting out of the elevator on the other end of the oncology wing, so Greg took a sharp right into the nearest patient's room, hoping to perhaps confuse the evil overlord. He closed the door and stretched the blinds, peeking out to check her progress.

There was a dignified cough behind him.

He groaned. Patients ruined everything.

He turned around to see a middle-aged woman laying on the hospital bed, pointedly staring at him. He took stock of her appearance. She wasn't a terribly attractive woman, with angular features, a large nose and graying auburn hair, but nor was she hideous. An insignificant fact, beyond the obvious detail that she hadn't started chemo yet, which meant that his inner-Wilson wouldn't scold him quite so much for being his usual self around her.

"Hi," House stole a look out into the hallway again. "Don't mind me. Window inspection. Making sure you don't have any smudges."

"An interesting profession," she picked up a remote from her lap and clicked it at the TV mounted on the wall, pausing whatever she had been watching.

"It puts the meat on the table," Cuddy didn't appear to be fooled and was marching straight towards the room.

"The doctor thing is just a side-job?"

House whipped around and squinted at the woman. "What makes you think I'm a doctor? I could be the resident insane cripple, out to clean all the windows in the building in my maniacal rage."

She smiled, "With nothing to clean with you'd be mighty inept at it."

His retort was cutoff prematurely when Cuddy entered the room, glaring.

"Clinic. Now." She held the door open and pointed out into the hallway.

House promptly ignored the other woman in favor of begging. "I need ten more minutes,"

"A shame, because you aren't going to get ten more minutes," she jerked the hand that pointed out of the room.

"But-"

"Are you Doctor Cuddy, the Head of Medicine?" The woman remarked calmly from her perch.

Cuddy spared a glance at the patient, dropping her arm and letting the door close.

"Yes," she shot an annoyed look at House, "I'm sorry for bothering you ma'am, we'll both," a glare, "be leaving shortly."

"Oh, but I thought Doctor Wilson requested Doctor House for a consult on an odd mark I have on my arm?"

Both doctors sent the woman looks of complete shock.

Cuddy blinked, "He did?"

"That's what Doctor Wilson said," the woman was looking at both of them earnestly. House was torn between astonishment and admiration. She was lying, and doing it amazingly well.

Cuddy looked to House, "He asked for a consult and you actually agreed?"

House looked from his boss to the unknown patient, contemplating his options. On one hand, he could go along with the woman's lie and make Cameron work a few more hours, freeing him up for prying into his friend's private life. On the other, he could give up and go to the clinic.

It really wasn't that difficult of a decision for Greg to make.

"I'm always trying to help my fellow doctors."

Cuddy raised a brow. "Unless they're exhausted after working for twenty eight hours doing your job,"

"Well of course not then. She could be trying to beat some record. To stop her now would just be cruel."

She sighed. "I'm sorry ma'am, I didn't realize Doctor House was helping you." Cuddy glanced at Greg again, "Once you're finished here go to the clinic. Do you understand?"

House gazed down at his feet. "Yes mom."

Cuddy rolled her eyes and sent a sympathetic look towards the woman, "Good luck," and with that she left, off to afflict some other poor sod.

House again went to the window and looked out into the hallway, to see Cuddy conspiring with someone at the nurse's station. He sighed and resigned himself to at least a twenty minute wait before the coast would be clear for him to renew his Wilson-search.

He turned away from the window and glanced suspiciously at the woman, taking a seat at the chair next to the bed. "Who are you, why are you here and how did you know who I am?"

She sighed, "Clara Samson, I have stage Three A breast cancer and I'm waiting for my last round of radiation before my lumpectomy. Jim's my doctor and he's talked about you. Since I can't imagine that there are many doctors with canes who refuse to wear their lab-coats around, I assumed."

"And what do you want?" Everyone lies, but everyone lies for a reason.

"Right now? For you to be quiet," she found the remote from the folds of one of her blankets, "I made my husband record episodes of General Hospital I've missed the past few weeks and I have four hours left to watch."

"You watch General Hospital?" House perked up.

She started the show. "It's only the pentacle of daytime entertainment," she picked up a bag of Skittles from her bed side table and offered him some, "Of course I watch General Hospital. So should everyone, as far as I'm concerned. Now shush."

House grabbed some of the candies and looked up at the screen, "This installment is boring anyway. Skye and Jax have an affair and Emily is heartbroken. Blah blah blah," House leaned back in his chair and stretched out his legs, the right one carefully, "Go to the next episode."

The woman glared at him, "My room, my tapes, my choice. Now either watch or go to that clinic you seem to be so fond of."

House sulked. "Soap Nazi."

"Ungrateful recluse. I like Emily, therefore this is important."

"Emily's a spineless twit. Alexis, now she's the interesting character-"

"And unconscious, making Emily as interesting as we're going to get."

"You know she wakes up in the next episode, right?"

"She does?" Clara fast-forward, "Why didn't you say so?"

House grinned. At long last, a soap opera buddy.

---

Chase stared at his pager again while in the elevator. The message from House said he should go to room 213 on the oncology floor and that it was urgent.

After careful consideration he determined that it didn't make any more sense now than it had five minutes ago when he first received it.

Abandoning all attempts at trying to make something of the message, Chase exited the elevator. He had learned that if he had the patience for it and waited long enough, House's insanity eventually made some sense. How long Chase had wait generally increased with how insane House was acting at the time, but still. More often than not the wait was worth the end results.

So he suspended belief and mentally prepared himself for encounter with the beast.

Chase knocked on the door to room 213 and entered upon the gruff, "Come in," that sounded from within.

He saw House in the standard issued 'loved one chair', leaning back, feet stretched out in front of him. To his left was a woman in a hospital bed, gown and all, who was currently passing him a bag of Skittles. Both of them had their eyes glued to a TV attached to the wall on the other side of the room, completely engrossed by…

Chase looked up and groaned internally.

General Hospital.

"Jax should leave Emily. She's too dull. If I was him I would've dumped her eons ago."

The woman on the hospital bed scowled at House and gestured towards the television. "You only say that because you don't find her innocence endearing. She's got something else about her, something special…"

"A full mastery over all that is uninteresting?"

The woman rolled her eyes, "No, a vulnerability that's appealing to some men,"

"Some idiotic men. Why have her when he could have Skye? He's already slept with her, might as well go all the way. Now there's a woma-"

"Er," Chase thought it best to remind them of his existence, for fear that he would be standing there for quite a long while if he remained silent. "Did you actually need me up here?"

"No, just wanted to see how long it took," House looked down at his watch, "Six minutes," he shook his head sadly, "How disappointing."

"Right," Chase looked again from House, to the woman, who looked much the same, then back again. "Are you actually spending time with a patient?"

"She's not my patient," House said, not taking his eyes off of the TV. "She's Wilson's. I'm giving a consult."

Chase blinked. "I don't know who I am anymore."

The woman looked away from the screen. "I'm Clara Samson, by the way."

Chase's head gave an involuntary jerk upon recognizing that name. He observed, taking in her features. The relation wasn't obvious, but then as they were only half sisters, that was hardly surprising. They had the same hair, similar eyes. The bone structures were alike as well, but nothing else could indicate that Cameron was related to this woman.

This woman who obviously had cancer.

Chase and Foreman had heard stories about Clara, it would have been hard not to. The three of them had known one another for years, and, as is the case with most colleagues, they had all shared amusing antidotes from their families after a certain amount of time, reveling in the memories of the period BH (Before House).

Chase was still impressed by the story of Foreman's uncle spitting cheery pits fifty yards. That took skill.

The point being, Chase knew how important Clara was to Cameron. And he also knew of his fellow doctor's unfortunate track-record with cancer.

This had to be killing her.

Chase realized he was still staring at Clara and quickly shook himself and smiled, "Oh, Clara nice to meet you, fina-"

She quickly looked at House, who was still entranced by the show, and then put a finger to her lips and signaled 'quiet', removing her hand just as House looked up.

Chase coughed, attempting to hide his earlier enthusiasm, "I'm Doctor Robert Chase." Internally he was kicking himself. If Cameron hadn't told him, or at least Foreman, who she was far more comfortable with, why on Earth would she want to tell House? She wouldn't, and Chase had nearly given it away.

"One of my underlings," House clarified needlessly. "Speaking of which, since you're here anyway, I need you and Foreman to go to Pratt's house."

Chase blinked, "You do realize that he lives an hour and a half away, right?"

House threw a Skittle in the air and caught it in his mouth, an action disturbingly similar to his Vicodin-popping days. "Yep, which is why you should be leaving now. Wouldn't want you out past your beddie-by."

Chase sighed, "You know Foreman's going to be upset about this."

"Eric? Upset about something that I caused? Never!"

"I'm just warning you."

"Yes, well. As you can see I'm very concerned." More Skittles made their way into his mouth.

Clara snatched the bag of Skittles away from him, "You shouldn't be such a bastard to your employees," she said as she poured out a handful of the neon-colored bits, "They have the ability to make your life hell."

House glared at her, "But I have the power to make their lives hell and the ability to take away their money." He snatched the bag back, "I win."

Clara rolled her eyes and turned to Chase, "Is he always this obnoxious?"

Chase nodded sadly, "Always."

"It's what makes me special," House was picking through the candies, finding all the pink ones and palming them in one hand. He looked up briefly. "Did I imagine telling you to go to Pratt's house, or are you just being dense?"

Chase shook his head, "Nice to meet you Mrs. Samson,"

"Clara," she said with a grin, "and nice to meet you too."

Chase left the room and headed for the diagnostics office to get Foreman. They were going to leave, but first they needed to make a quick stop at the clinic.

---

Cameron was dead on her feet.

She knew this.

It was apparent in looks of slight horror and shock she received from every patient she attended to that morning. More than one had asked her if she was alright, and a few had requested to be treated by another doctor, giving her nervous glances as she blinked rapidly at them.

Allison understood their reluctance to allow her to poke them with sharp things. Although her mind was far from shut down, used to functioning past normal levels of endurance (medical school had been more than enough to prep her for that), it was working very slowly, processing new information at a snail's pace. And her body was several steps ahead of it, making her stumble her own feet, stagger from room to room. She found herself yawning every few minutes, had to resist the urge to close her eyes while listening to patients.

She could easily understand that she was far from a reassurance to most of the patients in the waiting room.

Or the one setting in Exam Room One at that very moment.

"It's infected," Cameron eyed the ugly scrape on the teenage girl's leg, "I'm going to prescribe some antibiotics." She wrote the prescription, doing her best to cover up another yawn, "Take them twice a day for a month. If it doesn't improve by then," the yawn finally broke loose, "come back."

The girl started at her blankly as Cameron passed over the slip of paper. "You look horrible."

Allison blinked, not sure she knew the best way to respond. "Thank you for your concern?"

The patient shrugged. "I don't care, I just thought I'd point it out. If I get poisoned we're going to sue this hospital, so I hope you didn't screw up."

Cameron frowned and opened the exam room door, "Fortunate that I didn't, for the both of us. Have a nice day." She walked out and heard the satisfying slam of the door behind her as she made her way to the central station. As tired as Allison was, she didn't make mistakes. She was too methodical for that, too self-critical to permit it. Despite how unpleasant the teen was, she would never forgive herself if one of her patients was hurt due to a mistake on her part. She simply would not allow it to happen.

Cameron sighed as she mentally prepared herself for another patient, reaching out to grab the next file on the ever-increasing stack.

Only to be halted abruptly, spun around, and lead back into the exam room just as the girl (who shot her a very disturbed look) was leaving.

Disoriented, she could only blink repeatedly for a few moments as hands guided her to a chair and the world slowly righted itself.

Her captors took full advantage of the momentary silence it caused.

"Cameron, you know Foreman and I are always here to help you if you need it,"

"And that if something's wrong in your life, we want to know about it."

Cameron's vision focused and she saw Foreman and Chase each staring at her, arms crossed over chests, serious expressions on their faces. In her state, it was almost enough to make her start to giggle. They looked like a superhero duo.

"What kind of help can we be if we don't know what's going on?"

"We understand that sometimes it could be awkward, to share with us when something's bothering you, but we want to be able to support you like friends should."

"Which is impossible if you never give us the opportunity to do so." Chase took in a big gulp of air, "I saw your sister today. We know she has cancer."

Allison blinked again. The information needed time to process, as her brain too tired to properly interpret the words and put meaning behind them.

"We're not upset," Foreman reassured her, probably thinking she was hurt by the confrontation, "we just want to know why you felt the need to hide this from us. We could have helped you, but instead we were left without any idea what was going on and made useless to you."

Both men stared at her while she kept silent.

After a few moments Chase shifted his position, beginning to look uncomfortable, "Well?"

Allison started to snicker.

Chase and Foreman exchanged confused glances.

"Admittedly," Foreman looked back to Cameron, "not the reaction I was expecting,"

"Maybe our added pressure has pushed her to hysterics?" Chase tilted his head, examining her.

Cameron snorted.

"Should we get a nurse?" Chase was looking panicked as she broke down into small giggles.

"No," Cameron gasped, "I'm fine, really," she looked up at them, each with brows raised and concerned looks on their faces. The laughing intensified.

"I think," Foreman narrowed his eyes, "she finds our concern amusing."

Cameron took in a deep breath, "No, no, no. Thank you both, truly. It's just," she looked up and smiled at them, "you two look like a combination of disapproving mother hens and members of the Justice League."

They exchanged another confused gaze.

Cameron gave an internal sigh, "Never mind. Thank you for worrying about me," she stood up from her chair. She didn't want to have to explain herself, didn't want to justify her actions. But they certainly deserved it, and their concern was touching.

"I know I should have told you, but I didn't want you two to treat me as if I'm made of glass. It's hard enough for me to get respect from the majority of the staff, much less House. If you two stopped doing so," they both opened their mouths, but she held up a hand, "Don't lie. You know that if you knew about Clara you wouldn't have listened to my medical judgment. And that's alright, I understand why you would. Emotions and medicine don't go well together. But at the time, I could've have dealt with another change."

She took in a breath, "Clara having cancer is hard, as was accepting it, but if you two would have treated me any differently I don't know what I would have done. Not because I wouldn't have appreciated your support, but because you guys were the only things keeping me from exploding. You were reassuring me just by being yourselves, being normal. By being my constants." Cameron paused and looked up at the two men, who both remained stock still and silent. "Do you understand?"

Foreman nodded, but Chase continued to stare, looking at her oddly.

He sighed. "Alright," he said, "I think it's a load of crap," he grinned to take the edge off of the words, "but I'll buy it."

Cameron smiled and caught Foreman doing the same from the opposite side of the door. "Good. Now let me get back to work. There are sick people out there who are waiting to be healed," she began to stride purposely towards the door.

Foreman blocked the door with his arm. "No," he grinned when she glared at him. "We talked to Cuddy. You're going home,"

"But-"

Foreman rested his arm on her shoulders and steered her out of the Exam Room, "No buts," he waved to the nurses at the station and continued on, heading for the front entrance, "Chase and I need to go over to Pratt's house and we're going to drop you off at your apartment on the way."

Cameron glanced behind them to see Chase hot on their heals and the nurses making no move to stop their progress as they walked out of the doors. "This was really approved by Cuddy?" She hoped so. She was so tired, and Pratt lived more than an hour away. She could get at least a solid three hours of sleep...

"Scout's honor," Chase chimed in from behind them, "She's been trying to get House to take over for you for an hour anyway."

Cameron smiled, a relief she was almost ashamed of coursing through her, "Thank God."

Both of the boys laughed and she smirked. She still needed to visit Clara, but she could do that when they got back and if Cuddy encouraged her leaving, House couldn't scold her for it.

Chase came up on the other side of her as they made their way to his car and she smiled. She couldn't quite remember why on Earth hadn't she told them sooner. Being pampered was delightful.

---

In the hour after he had closed his office door, Wilson had moved himself from his couch and to his desk, where he was now up to his elbows in paperwork.

When faced with the things that didn't work, James turned to the things that did. House, however, was not a suitable distraction this time.

So Wilson distracted himself with his job.

Thomas Anderson had Stage Two small-cell lung cancer, fifty-five years old, otherwise perfectly healthy. He was an ideal candidate to test a new experimental drug on the market. It offered no guarantees of success, but there was a chance that it could extend his life up to ten years.

Sandra Appleton was a twelve year old in the advanced stages of juvenile leukemia. Her latest check-up had been yesterday, and things were not looking well. Wilson would increase her chemo sessions, but he knew he had to warn her and her parents that the end was near.

Margaret Roberts had just been diagnosed with Stage One bone cancer. They were starting her on chemotherapy today and she was petrified. She had no family to speak of, so Wilson made a mental note to visit her before her first session.

Samuel McDonald also had bone cancer, but stage Three. His arm was being amputated today, in hopes of halting the spread of the disease. He was a carpenter and was still dealing with the fact that he would have to lose his livelihood for his life. Fortunately, he had a loving wife and three grown children, all of whom would help adjust to the drastic change.

Wilson sighed and rubbed his neck, trying to kneed away the seemingly constant kink in it.

His job. A blessing and a curse that he cherished more than any physical possession he had ever owned and valued more than most relationships he ever had.

Not all, but most.

There was a knock on the door.

"Come in," Wilson said before properly thinking, pulling up another file.

"This room practically reeks of angst," House took in a big whiff, "I love it."

Wilson looked up and groaned. He should have known.

"Alright," House limped eagerly across the office, sitting on the other side of Wilson's desk. "I know I've missed the inner-turmoil phase and that you've moved onto the 'ignore it and pretend it didn't happen' stage."

Wilson glared, "Nothing happened."

"See?"

"House, this isn't the time. I have cases to go over." James stared down at the file, "We can talk at lunch."

Greg smacked the handle of his cane down on top of the file, causing Wilson to look up with a sardonic expression on his face.

"Nope." House smirked. "You remember when I said I wouldn't spare your dignity again? I wasn't lying. In all of the years I've known you, you've never run faster than you did out of my office this morning. I want to know why."

"It's not important," Wilson shoved aside House's cane. "Just someone I used to know who I was surprised to see again."

"So surprised that you sprinted out of the room upon seeing her."

Wilson said nothing, looking back to the file. He wouldn't, couldn't, talk about this. Not now.

"Did you have an affair with her?"

He looked up sharply, "What? No!" Too close.

House ignored him. He probably knew that Wilson was getting angry, that he didn't think as clearly once he became upset. "She cheated on Pratt and you cheated on Julie? It would make sense, explain your guilt- you usually don't go after married woman. And it would explain why she scampered off just as quickly as you did-"

"She didn't have an affair!"

"But you did?"

Wilson sighed and rubbed his neck again. Who the hell did he think he was fooling anyway? Once House wanted to know something, he found a way to figure it out. It didn't matter what lengths he had to go to in order to discover whatever little tidbit had caught his interest, didn't matter what was destroyed in his efforts. There was no reason for Wilson to draw it out, to cause House to go to drastic measures.

"Yeah, I did." He dropped his hand from his neck, stared at his hands. "Sara was my first wife."

House smirked, "Really? Huh. This Pratt fellow seems to be fond of collecting women you've been married to. Did you leave a trail of wedding rings behind you for him to follow? Think he has Elise taking his family portraits? Your high school girlfriend as a photocopier?"

Wilson gave a huff of laughter, more out of irony than anything else, "By this point, I wouldn't be shocked if it were true."

House tilted his head. "You cheated on Elise with half of the women in New Jersey. I don't think seeing her again would send you bolting out of the room."

Wilson said nothing for a moment, remembering her smile, the way her nose would scrunch up when she laughed, the twinkle in her eye when she felt mischievous. "This was different."

"You've never talked about her."

Wilson shook his head. "No." Never her.

Another moment of silence in the conversation, House looking intently at his friend.

Wilson resisted the urge to fidget. He didn't like this, being under House's microscope. For all that House hated to have his own feelings pecked at, analyzed and deconstructed, the man was eager enough to take part in the process himself. Wilson felt entirely too exposed, too open to House's critical eye.

It was unsettling.

House abruptly stood up, making his way to the door. "I'm surprised."

Wilson blinked. "Why?"

House opened the office up to the outside world and paused. "You, Jimmy, care about everyone, whether they deserve it or not, so much that you believe you love them. I didn't realize that, at one point, you weren't fooling yourself."

With that House made his exit, leaving Wilson alone in his suddenly overly quiet workplace.

He hung his head over his desk, brining his hand back to his neck yet again. House was right. He had loved her. Not the thrill-of-the-moment love of Elise, or the detached love of Julie. The all consuming, I can't live without you, won't you please have my children and will you let me grow old with you type of love that most only dreamt about.

And James had destroyed it, taken advantage of it. Ruined what had the potential to be a truly blissful and happy life.

Wilson looked up from the reassuring pine of his desk, gazing out of his window to stare out at the raining world beyond the hospital's doors. There was something peaceful about rain, he had always thought. Something calming and soothing, providing a comforting quiet that, if he listened hard enough, could make him forget his troubles.

A quiet that was quickly interrupted by the ring of his office phone.

Automatically, he answered.

"Doctor James Wilson speaking,"

"James?" A soft, high pitched voice asked from the other line, sounding more than a little apprehensive.

Wilson sighed. "Julie."


	5. I Want To Forget, I Want to Remember

**Drenched**

**Summary**: House enjoys the company of a patient- obviously signaling the apocalypse, Wilson is getting a divorce, Chase is falling head over heals, Foreman's thinking of leaving the team and Cameron's sister has cancer. At least it's not raining. Yet.

**Disclaimer**: If House was mine I think life in general would be better. For everyone, really. There would be no war, all members of society would treat one another with respect and consideration, cute things would be plentiful, Global Warming would cease to be an issue and all the cultures of the Earth would gather together, join hands, and sing 'Kumbaya My Lord'. Sadly, however, I don't own House, and the world and I both suffer for this. –wink- House belongs to David Shore and Fox. "It Doesn't Get Much Better Than This" is Nicole Burdette's. Bah humbug.

**Author's Note**: Yarg. This chapter came out kicking and screaming, be forewarned. My attempts to have this posted in a week were hampered by a last-minute request to house/child sit whilst the couple is off on a week long vacation. Writing around little ones very difficult.

In any case, here it is now.

The last of the significant OCs are introduced here. I know there's a lot of them, but please, bare with me. Know that they are all plot devices, used solely for the progression of the characters from the show. Although, I must admit, I am quite fond of Clara. -grin-

I will be editing chapters up until Tuesday (no way am I going to continue to try work off of this house's one computer…), so if you see something saying that the story has been updated before then, ignore it. Unless you want to see the ends of the dreaded 'O' and the horrible one 'l' 'Alison'. –grin-

This is the section where I ruthlessly kill "It Doesn't Get Much Better Than This." Sorry Nicole Burdette.

This story is cannon-compatible up to "Skin Deep."

My medical knowledge is nonexistent. Take the things I say about the subject to heart at your own peril!

My General Hospital knowledge isjust as bad.

Reviews/Reviewers are loved.

Thank you and enjoy!

---

**Chapter Four: I Want To Forget, I Want To Remember **

_I want never to say goodbye to you  
Even on the street corner or on the phone._

_I want to forget.  
I want to remember us.  
-Nicole Burdette_

---

The awkward silence was back.

That horrible quiet he had somehow managed to forget in the past three and a half weeks. It was a dreadful sound, nothing. It blared over the calming noise of the rain on pavement from outside to completely fill up his office with its gaping void.

And this wasn't even in person. It was just a phone call.

It was kind of funny, if he thought about it. A conversation with Julie was the equivalent to a fierce vortex that sucked up everything in its path to leave a great void in Wilson's universe, like a black hole.

Was this really what he had lived with for the past five years? Day by day, just trying to avoid these pauses? He repressed an internal note of relief, grateful that he had saved himself from a life of attempting to fill the quiet with something significant.

Only to be instantly ashamed for the thought.

He knew that his third wife had never loved him, but he also knew that he had meant something to her. Provided her with a certain respect and security that she had cherished deeply and likely felt lost without. His leaving had hurt her, and here he was, grateful for her absence.

Wilson hated to cause others pain. He had always been a relatively considerate person, but time and time again he hurt the people he loved, often for selfish, stupid reasons. And every time he felt like a lesser person, like a disgrace.

He had to say something, make an effort. She deserved that much. "How are you?"

"Oh, I'm fine," Julie sounded mildly surprised at the pleasantry, taken aback, "I've been living with my sister. You remember Margie?"

Wilson tried his best not to be offended, "Of course I remember Margie. We went over to her house last New Year's."

"Oh, right. Yes, well. It's been very nice." A momentary pause, "And you? How are you doing?"

"Just fine," James wasn't an idiot. Talking to his ex-wife about his other ex-wife was a disaster waiting to happen, one that he was more than eager to avoid. "How's work?"

"It's actually been a little hectic lately, with Mr. Pratt gone and the China deal," he could almost see the small, side of the mouth, smile she was bound to be giving. "Luckily the presidents have been very understanding; they keep sending us candies and other sweets. But, the rest of the office is falling apart at the seams without the boss around to pick up after us... How is he doing?"

"Alright," Wilson leaned back in his chair, ignoring the files on his desk. This just might turn out to be a pleasant conversation. "He's stable right now, but we still don't know what caused the episodes."

Julie snorted from the other side of the line, "I'm not surprised."

"Really?" Wilson suppressed his initial reaction of anger, instead summoning up a genuine curiosity towards her feelings. "Why do you say that?"

"The fact that House isn't actually working in the manner he is supposed to is far from astounding to me."

Julie, the ever hard-working perfectionist, hated House. Hated that he felt as if he could cost on his talent alone rather than combine that natural skill with some elbow grease to reach a new level of excellence in medical treatment. Hated that he treated his job as a curse rather than a blessing. Hated that House had encouraged the distance between Julie and her husband.

When they hadn't been staring at one another blankly during their marriage, they had been screaming. Each blaming the other (or House) for problems that had nothing to do with what either of them had or hadn't done. Problems that neither wished to admit were inherent in their relationship before it had even been fully formed, and that they had simply chosen to ignore.

James took in a deep breath. "He's doing the best he can."

"If he was really doing his best Pratt would be back at work by now."

The twinge in Wilson's neck gave a painful flare and he kneaded the spot. "You assume that because you don't like him, he isn't doing his job."

"No, I assume he isn't doing his job because I've met the man. He's never devoted his full effort into anything, much less his work, which he uses as a playground to toy with people's lives."

"He saves dozens of people-"

"But he could save hundreds if he chose to. He doesn't. Just like I'm sure he's choosing to waste time now instead of caring for his patient."

James scowled. "If only your accusations were supported by actual evidence."

"Evidence? House is a great doctor. If he really was doing all he can then how do explain why Pratt is still at the hospital due to an allergic reaction, one of the most simple maladies?" She paused, halting her angry pace. "The man is not doing his job."

Many things could be said about Greg, and many were, but once a person became his medical responsibility, that patient became his first priority. It was rarely out of a sense of human generosity, obviously, but more out of a twisted sense of professional obligation. House did everything he could to ensure his patient was cured, even if those things weren't necessarily moral or right by the traditional definition.

This didn't mean he liked his patients, but they were _his_. And because House was possessive and selfish, he always got the best for his things. He would make sure he did everything possible to improve their health. Whether they, or anyone else, wanted it, consequences be damned.

Many people didn't understand this about House, and James generally didn't care. They still respected his abilities as a doctor and, to an extent, trusted his judgment. Those who didn't typically had PhDs backing up their claims rather than a four year grudge.

"Did you call just to berate me about how House's work ethic isn't up to your standards?" Wilson asked, his tone less than polite.

"No," Julie sounded meek, rebuked.

"Then why did you?" Still harsh.

His question was met with silence.

"Fine. Then I'm going back to work," Wilson started to hang up the phone.

"Wait!" Frantic, pleading.

Wilson put the phone back to his ear. "What?"

"I'm pregnant."

---

Foreman was holding on for dear life as Chase made a wide turn into the parking lot of the Pratt mansion, the doctor grinning broadly as he brought the vehicle to a halt in front of the large building.

Foreman glared at him as he opened his door, "Never again."

Chase looked a little dissatisfied, "Aw, come on Foreman!"

Eric ignored him as he made his way out of the car, closing the door and heading to the entrance of the house. As soon as they dropped Cameron off at her apartment all of Chase's attempts at 'cautious driving' (which had been pretty damn pathetic to begin with) had been thrown out the window, resulting in more than a few close calls.

He didn't care what Chase had to say. He almost died in that damn car. Three times.

Australians.

"Don't tell me you didn't have fun!" Chase said as he ran to catch up.

"Oh, right. Because seeing my life flash before my eyes is my definition of a good time." Foreman rang the doorbell. "I'm driving next time."

Chase grumbled. "Spoil sport."

"Maniac."

"I drive fast! That hardly makes me mentally deranged."

"But cutting in front of no less than five people and then laughing at them as they flipped you off does."

"Sissy."

This was how Foreman and Chase's relationship worked. They argued about everything, drove one another insane, and if they hadn't been forced to work together every single day, would likely hate each other by now. But, due to an immeasurable amount of hours spent at the hospital, more rode-trips to patients house's and places of work than Foreman wanted to count, and sleepless nights at the lab, they had learned to deal with, and even appreciate, each other.

Normally, no circumstances could have brought the two doctors together. And although they still had moments of tension, they had somehow, through continuous exposure and mutual suffering, eased themselves into a reluctant friendship that had grown over the years. A friendship that, surprisingly, Foreman enjoyed.

This did not, however, mean that Foreman would ever allow Chase to drive him anywhere again.

"Call me what you want; I'm still driving back."

"You, Eric Foreman, are a kill-joy."

The door opened and a woman, the maid most likely, ushered them in. They had called on the way, so she merely pointed further inside of the house and went about her business.

Foreman couldn't blame her. The place was huge. It would be hell to clean.

And it was going to be hell to search through.

They swept through the bottom floor in an hour, going from room to room, looking under cabinets and loose floorboards, finding the most remote of corners and searching for anything unusual.

They found nothing. Except for several bowls of candy from China, apparently from the presidents of a company Pratt was trying to sell to. Chase took a handful of the colorful things and stuck them in his pocket.

"A snack for on the way back," he said as they made their way back to entryway, "You'll thank me later."

Foreman rolled his eyes, reaching where they had entered the house.

"I've decided," Eric said with a sigh as he started up the large staircase in the entrance of the mansion, "I'm going to get a new job."

Chase was right behind him, "Sure you will." He was smiling as he said it.

Foreman glared behind him, "I'm not joking. I'm tired of this."

They reached the top of the stairs and split up, Foreman going to the left and Chase going off to the right.

"Would you stop whining?" Chase yelled from his side of the floor. "Someone had to do this; might as well be us."

"You only say that because you don't care that you're running errands instead of being a doctor."

"Sure I do," Foreman heard as he went into one of the spare bed-rooms, heading straight for the closest. "If I had to choose between scrubbing-in for a surgery or doing this, I'd go for the surgery. But, hey, if looking through this place is what I'm stuck with, oh well."

"It doesn't bother you that you spent all those years at medical school for this?" Nothing in the closet. Not even clothes. On to the dressier.

"Not really," he heard a small thump and Chase's muttering before his colleague continued to talk to him through several walls. "It's not as if we're doing these things for shits and giggles. We do it to get our patients better faster. You like them well enough, shouldn't you understand that?"

"This," Foreman said with his voice raised, reluctantly fingering through undergarments that hadn't been washed in at least a year, "isn't getting Pratt better." He shuddered and closed the drawer.

"Just because you think it's not going to help him doesn't mean that it won't. If House has us doing it, there's a reason. You need to learn to be patien-" Chase trailed off. "Foreman, you're not going to believe this."

Intrigued by his friend's interest, Foreman raised an eyebrow and left the room, following Chase's voice to the master bedroom.

"What?" He asked from the doorway.

Chase gestured him to come closer from his spot in front of the closet, standing up from the floor with a large book in his hands. "I was looking in the closet and I dropped the box from one of the shelves," Foreman took a closer look at the floor to see a large cardboard box on its side, pictures, books and slips of paper scattered around. "I was riffling through it and I found... Just look at this."

Chase handed him the book, already opened to a page. Foreman looked down at it and then back up again, "It's a college yearbook. So?"

Chase sighed. "Look at the pictures."

Foreman, still suspicious, did so. And then saw it.

"Oh, wow."

"Wilson was really scrawny when he was younger, wasn't he?" Chase went behind Eric to hover.

He was skinny, humorously so, wearing glasses that were far too big for his face, standing to the side of the picture with a guitar slung around his back and smiling. Various other students were gathered around him, all with different instruments and holding a sign that read 'Recreational Band' in large block letters.

"What are the odds..." Foreman muttered quietly as he continued to study the picture.

"There's a note in his writing too, but I can't read it," Chase spoke up from behind him.

Foreman shot him a look and rolled his eyes, "You call yourself a doctor but you can't read scrawl?"

"Well look at that! It's like a chicken stuck it's feet in ink and walked all over the paper."

"Allow me to demonstrate," Foreman gave a dignified cough and began to read.

"'Sara,' Pratt's wife then, 'It's been a week since we've met you and you're still resisting my charms,'" Foreman stopped briefly and he and Chase exchanged a sardonic glance. They were both aware of Wilson's reputation.

"'However, I am not discouraged. As it turns out I heard we will be seeing a lot more of one another in the next four years (who would've thought we'd end up at the same grad school?), and I have every intention of using that time to my best advantage. Of course, you could spare me (and yourself) the pain and humiliation that my attempting to 'woo' you will cause, and just agree to go on a date with me. You should be aware by now that I am extremely persistent. What do you say? I know you have to like me, at least a bit, and I can tell that you want to give me a chance. Come on, it'd be fun.

"'Think on it, and expect some flowers later this week.

"'Jimmy Wilson.'"

There was a pause as Foreman lowered the book and closed it, neither of the men knowing quite what to say about this sudden insight into their colleague's past.

At last, Chase snickered. "Oh man," he said, taking the book from Foreman and beginning to gather the other items off of the ground, "House would be having a field day right now if he was here."

---

Cameron woke up with a jerk to the vibration of her cell-phone in her pocket.

After Chase and Foreman had dropped her off she had staggered into her apartment, dragged herself to her bed and had then promptly passed out, only just shrugging out of her lab-coat before she had hit the mattress.

The sleep had been blissful. She couldn't remember enjoying being unconscious so much since med school, when she would rather forego showering, eating and down-time just for a two hour nap. Working with House was almost a pleasure cruise in comparison to those days.

Her phone gave another vibration and she groggily tugged her phone out of her pocket and flipped it open, "'Lo?"

"Cameron? It's Chase."

"Hmm…" She rubbed at her eyes with her free hand. "Should you really be talking on the phone while driving?" She asked as she sat up, her mind latching onto the last fact she could recall; Chase driving.

Her colleague grumbled. "Foreman took the keys away from me."

Allison's only saving grace was the fact that she was still too bleary to summon up the energy to laugh.

Chase made an unidentifiable noise. "You don't think I'm a bad driver, do you Cameron?"

"Err…" Cameron stood up from her bed and stretched, "I wouldn't say bad, exactly…"

Chase let out an audible sigh and Cameron heard Foreman chuckling in the background.

"What time is it?" Allison was wandering through her apartment, heading for the kitchen to get some coffee.

"About 3:16 in the afternoon."

Cameron stopped in her tracks. "It's almost been five hours?"

"Yeah," Chase muttered, "Pratt's house is big."

"I suppose that's one of the perks of being a multibillionaire," she had reached her kitchen turned on the coffee machine, grabbing a mug. "So why did you call?"

"We're about a half an hour away. Do you want us to come and pick you up on our way back to the hospital or you going to skip out on the rest of the day?"

"No, come pick me up, please. I still need to visit Clara." Her sister had a three hour radiation session that began at one. Clara, being Clara, had arrived three and a half hours earlier than her appointment with every intention of watching her soaps, claiming that she hadn't had the time earlier in the week and that, if she had cancer anyway, she might as well milk it for all it was worth.

"Alright. We'll be there in a bit."

"Wait, Chase, how did you find out about Clara?" In her sleep-deprived state, Allison had forgotten to ask earlier.

She was met with silence.

"Chase?"

"You're not going to like it Cameron."

She put down her cup of coffee and straightened. "What is it?"

"House called me up to her room to send Foreman and me to Pratt's mansion."

Cameron was momentarily shocked. "House was with Clara when he sent you two out?"

"Yeah," Chase paused and she could practically see the puzzled expression on his face. "They were watching General Hospital together."

Cameron was torn between amusement and horror. "Does he know she's my sister?"

"I don't think so. I was going to mention it, but she stopped me before I had the opportunity."

Cameron gave an internal sigh of relief, instantly grateful that Clara knew her as she did, or else Allison would have a very unpleasant situation on her hands.

House was like a woodpecker.

He would find a weak point in a person's armor and keeping poking at it, unceasingly, until it gave way and he was allowed access to a person's insides. Cameron had felt the sensation before, that of House crawling under her skin and fumbling with her emotions, toying with her head, sometimes in self-defense and sometimes just for his own amusement. And yet, she had no one to blame for the experience save for herself. He didn't need to poke all that much before she was opening the door and allowing him in.

It had been a mistake, one she was not eager to repeat. You gave House an inch and he destroyed you, despite his claims to the contrary. 'I'm not going to crush you,' indeed.

"I'm sorry, I know I was being an idiot for almost letting it slip,"

Cameron exhaled, "No, don't worry. No harm done. Thanks for telling me. I'll see you guys in a bit, alright?"

"Okay, be there soon."

Chase hung up and Cameron contemplated her situation. Clara was a weak spot, and she wouldn't put it past her boss to manipulate her sister in order to press Cameron's buttons. Granted, the thought of anyone manipulating Clara was laughable, but, how Allison felt about her older sister's condition... That would make an easy target for House to exploit.

She shook herself. No need to worry over it now. At this moment she needed coffee, a mirror to fix her hair, which she was sure was a complete mess by this point, and a change of clothes. With a sigh she took another large gulp of coffee and set about making herself presentable before the boys showed up.

Twenty minuets later and she was in the back of Chase's car, with Foreman driving and Chase glaring at him all the while.

"I can't believe you won't let my drive my own car. I feel like I'm sixteen."

"If you didn't drive like you were sixteen this wouldn't be necessary."

"Have you been arguing about this the whole way back?" Cameron asked with a grin as she sat up in her seat, trying to have easier access to the conversation.

"He's been arguing," Foreman remarked blandly as he switched lanes, "I've been ignoring him. So, about Clara," Foreman looked back at Cameron while at a stoplight. "How's she doing?"

Cameron shrugged, "As well as can be expected. She's got stage Three A breast cancer, and they're trying to shrink the tumor with radiation therapy so that they can do a lumpectomy in two days."

"Really?" Chase asked, turning and facing Cameron just as Foreman turned back to drive. "Is it working?"

"Surprisingly, yes." Cameron knitted her hands together on her lap. "Clara wanted to avoid a mastectomy if it was possible, so Wilson decided to try the technique. It's not very popular here, with most doctors just wanting to hack off everything, but it appears to be showing positive results."

"Wow," Foreman's eyebrows furrowed, "I wouldn't have taken Wilson for being so creative."

"Me either, actually." Cameron sighed and smiled slightly, "You guys have no idea how reassuring it's been to have Wilson as her doctor."

"Wilson's overseeing the case personally?" Chase looked thoughtful at Cameron's nod. "I thought he was just supervising the attending."

"No, Clara's his patient." Cameron blushed and looked down at her hands, "I actually asked him to take her on, and transfer her from her regular hospital."

Foreman tilted his head, "And he did it?"

"The same day I asked," Cameron grinned, "It's the only reason I'm not out of my mind with worry now."

"Is he really that good?" Chase asked.

"Yes," Cameron answered without hesitation, causing both boys to send her odd glances. She shrugged. "I've done research, he's one of the best in the country. The only reason he hasn't gotten more notice in the medical community is because he's so young."

"Well obviously," Chase said as he pulled a couple of ornately wrapped candies out of his pocket, handing one to Cameron and unwrapping the other himself, "If the doctor's not prehistoric they think he hasn't suffered enough to have earned any title of merit."

Foreman smirked from the driver's seat, "Speaking of Wilson being young, you wouldn't believe what we found at Pratt's."

"What?" Cameron asked, fingering the tin-foil covered bit in her hand.

Chase chimed in before Foreman had the opportunity, "Wilson's college year-book. Apparently he was played guitar in the recreational band and lusted after Pratt's wife."

"Go figure," Cameron didn't trust things wrapped in so many bright colors. "Small world."

Chase pointed to the candy that Cameron was still staring at "They're actually pretty good," he popped the piece into his mouth, "swiped them from 'the palace'."

"Are you should you should be stealing from our patient?" Cameron was still eyeing the sweet suspiciously.

Chase rolled his eyes, "There were a million of the things in five bowls in the kitchen." He got another out of his pocket, "These won't be missed."

"What did you find at Pratt's anyway, besides candy and college pictures of Wilson?" Cameron began to unwrap the candy.

Foreman snorted. "Some mold on one of the pipes to the sink in an upstairs bathroom."

"You don't think that has anything to do with his attacks, do you?"

"No," Chase grumbled, "But if we find it we have to check it." He gestured to the candy again, "Just eat it already. It's good, I swear."

Cameron sighed and placed it in her mouth. "Huh, it is good."

Foreman perked up, "Here, give me one," he held out his hand expectantly.

"No way," Chase said with a smirk. "You took my car. You don't deserve a treat."

"I am driving you know. I could slam us into a wall."

"But you're far too responsible for that, Doctor Foreman. Poor innocent Allison would be hurt."

"Sacrifices can be made for the sake of some sugar for an empty stomach. Don't tempt me. Give me a damn candy."

"Nope."

Cameron sighed and listened to their squabble for the rest of the trip, only barely resisting the urge to smack them both on the back of the head for being ridiculous.

Foreman finally did get a piece of candy after they had arrived at the hospital, exchanging Chase's car keys for a sweet as they walked through the front entrance.

"Alright guys," Cameron broke away from the boys as they headed for the lab, "I'm going to go visit the infirm family member. If House asks, I'm not here. Got it?"

Chase waved his hand and kept walking, but Foreman came up and gave her a quick hug. "Hey, if you need anything, just let me know, alright?"

Cameron smiled up at him, "I will. Now go study that fascinating mold why don't you."

Foreman sighed, "Oh yes. The highlight of my day,"

They grinned at each other before going their separate ways, Foreman following Chase and Cameron rushing to the elevator, managing to wrestle her way in before the doors closed.

"Al?"

The small compartment was packed, but it was impossible to miss Mark.

"Mark!" She, as politely as possible, weaved in between people to get to the back of the elevator, practically leaping into her brother-in-law's embrace when she reached him.

He gave her a big squeeze and lifted her off of her feet, "Al, nice to see you!" He set her down and she staggered for a moment as she regained her breath and footing. "What're you doing here?"

Allison smirked at him, "Visiting my ungrateful sister. Not to mention that I also work here, in case you forgot."

"Oh, that's right," he narrowed his eyes, "You're the doctor, right?"

Allison hit the big man lightly on the arm. "Funny. You're getting a crappy Christmas present this year." Mark held his hands up in mock-surrender and Cameron grinned. "Does Clara know you're coming?"

"Nope. I'm surprising her."

Cameron raised an eye-brow, "You know she hates those."

"Nah," Mark smiled and shifted his position, quickly apologizing to the people he bumped into. "Keeps her young."

Allison shook her head and turned back to the front of the elevator. "You're funeral."

"My wife loves me. And if she kills me she'll have to pick up Matt every day from school. Her hatred for that parking lot alone is enough to ensure my continued existence."

"Where is Matt anyway?" Cameron asked as she looked down, scanning for eleven-year old boys.

"I had a meeting with a client, so Sammy took him after school today."

"Ah yes," Cameron stopped her search, smirking. "His other favorite aunt."

"Seeing as how he only has two, that isn't a very impressive title, I'm afraid." Mark grinned, "They should be getting here any minute now."

"Oh good," the smirk turned to a full smile, "I haven't seen either of them, especially Sammy, in ages."

Mark groaned, "I know. We never hear the end of it. Every time Sammy calls she's always asking when we'll invite you both over for a dinner again, and you know how Matt adores you."

Allison laughed, "What can I say? I'm likeable." She caught Mark rolling his eyes. "And how are they both doing?"

"Good," he reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of gum, "Matt's doing great in school and Sammy's got three books lined up." He pulled out a slip and gestured to the pack, silently asking if she wanted one.

Cameron shook her head, "No thanks." She looked intently at her brother-in-law. "And how are you doing Mark, really?"

He sighed, "As well as can be expected." Everyone in the lift shuffled a bit as they got to the next floor, over half of the occupants leaving, giving those who remained more breathing room. "I wish I could do something to help, and I try to, but I have a feeling I'm irritating her more than anything else now." He stuck the piece of gum in his mouth, starting to chew as he looked down at his hands playing with the small silver slip it came in.

"It's Clara," Cameron sent him a sympathy-loaded look, "You know how she is about these sorts of things." If someone else was ill Clara would spend all of her effort and energy on trying to get them better, ignoring herself in favor of those who she thought needed her attention more. The second she was in a similar, desperate, situation she instantly insisted that she didn't need the 'fluttering,' as she called it, of her loved ones.

Mark nodded, "I know," he gave a small, sad, smile. "It's just hard."

Cameron looked to the front of the elevator, staring at her reflection in the silver panes of the doors. "Yeah. I know."

There was a flash of Brian in a hospital bed, IVs, heart monitors and other medical equipment seeming to suffocate him, taking up all of his air, making him look smaller, weaker. Entirely too fragile. His features sharpened due to a drastic loss of weight, the hollows of his cheeks apparent. The nearly constant pain he was in. Still, he had smiled at her when she entered to room, and she had smiled back, ignoring that seeing him like that had made her feel more helpless than any sight before or since.

There was nothing worse than watching the person you love die.

Allison looked up at Mark again, doing her best to suppress the memories. "So, do you want me to take you to the shrew's room?"

Mark grinned at the nick-name, "Only if you're not too busy to help me through this maze you call a hospital."

"Not busy at all," Cameron said as the elevator dinged upon reaching the oncology floor. "My boss' boss let me leave early. I'm officially off duty. This is the floor," she and her brother-in-law stepped out of the lift.

Mark slowed his pace to match hers as they began to walk down the hall. "Your boss' boss?"

Cameron sighed, "Yeah. The guy I work for is a bit... demanding."

---

House sighed and clicked the remote in his hand, pausing the image on the television screen. "I don't know if you're in a proper state to fully appreciate the drama unfolding before us here."

"I just had radiation and I'm tired. This does _not_ mean that I am not appreciating the drama of General Hospital."

House eyed his companion suspiciously. "You didn't even gasp when Alexis woke up and the first person she saw was Jason. No comment about her amnesia and how she doesn't remember the he's the one who pushed her off of the train tracks. You're obviously not enjoying this properly."

Clara glared at him. "Well if you would've brought some more Skittles to replace the ones you ate earlier today, I would be more enthralled." She scowled at him. "But you took away my sugar and, therefore, my ability to focus for more than three minutes."

"I don't come with food. Just witty commentary."

House had managed to avoid Cuddy since their consult-encounter, hiding in various obscure areas of the hospital (for no more than a half an hour in each location, mind you. House wouldn't have survived his first week of work without mastering the art of avoidance) ever since he had left Wilson's office in the morning. Fifteen minutes ago he decided that some General Hospital would do him good, seeing as how sneaking around all day could really wear a man down. Not to mention the fact that he still needed to wait for his minions to return from their Pratt-house escapade, and all the lurking was getting rather boring. Unfortunately, he couldn't go to his office as he was sure Cuddy would bully him down to the clinic. She had radar set up in there, he just knew it.

So he had slowly, and very cautiously, made his way back to Clara Samson's room, arriving just as she returned from her radiation session, ready to continue the General Hospital wonderment.

Only to be disappointed by her weakened state, and as such, a noticeable lack of interest in the show and a greater fascination with the insides of her eyelids.

"Well let this be a lesson to you then. You want me to be entertaining, come bearing sweets. Understood?"

House grumbled and tapped his cane on the floor repeatedly. "Yes mother."

"Good boy. That being said, it wasn't that surprising that Alexis woke up, given that someone," she glared pointedly at him, "told me that she would. Several hours ago, I might add. The wait really killed the excitement. As for Jason, obviously he's going to be the first person she sees. He is her doctor after all, which has made the story line fantastic. You can practically see the guilt dripping from him."

House stared at her intently, Clara staring innocently back. All of that, when a moment ago she appeared to be nearly unconscious? Greg stared at her thoughtfully. "Nice."

Clara blinked, "What's that?"

"You were paying attention the whole time, weren't you?"

"Of course I was paying attention. This is General Hospital, what do you take me for?"

"You had me seriously considering bringing you sugar," House grinned and leaned back into his seat. "I'm impressed by your ability to guilt-trip. Give lessons? Cancer's great and all, but what angle do you use with a bum leg?"

"Well then you go with the pro-longed suffering routine, that much should be apparent. You don't have the whole, 'I could die' thing going for you, but there is definite potential in the fact that you're stuck with the leg every day and that you 'will never be the same.'" She looked down to his idle hands. "You taking notes?"

House tapped his head, "All up here."

"Hm. You're one of those irritating students, aren't you?"

"Me," Greg gave a look of shock, "Irritating? Madam," he clenched a hand over his heart, "you wound me."

She ignored him, tilting her head and squinting her eyes, as if she was studying a particularly interesting container of leftovers that had been in the fridge for over five months, more mold than food by that point. "You never write anything down but you remember everything, and you shove that fact in the collective face of all of those you think are lesser than you."

"Well obviously." House continued to tap his cane. "How else will they learn their place?"

She sighed, "Alright, fine. Be a smart-ass. Now will you please turn the show back on?"

House grinned in satisfaction, convinced he was, once again, a member of a captive audience. He eagerly clicked the play button.

It was going quite well, House beginning to immerse himself completely into the drama once more, when they were interrupted by the entrance of a black man with pleasant features, no hair and who was (in House's mind), roughly the size of a small vacation cottage.

He looked to Clara who showed immediate signs of recognition. "Body guard?"

Clara raised an eyebrow at Greg and smirked as the man walked further into the room, going to the woman and kissing her, causing House to flinch away from the display of affection. There were no studies yet proving that 'warm and fuzzy feelings' weren't contagious.

He scowled. "Ah, boy toy." Greg sighed and put the show on pause again. This was going to take a bit.

Clara grinned at House. "Husband," she turned to Man the Size of a Small Building (Indian name). "Mark, this is Doctor Gregory House. He's annoying but he likes General Hospital, making him bearable company."

His name was Mark? Greg resisted the urge to hit him with his cane, just on principle.

The man grinned and held out his hand, House reluctantly grabbing it, participating in the shake.

"Nice to meet you."

House clenched his fingers and tried to regain feeling, narrowing his eyes suspiciously at the man, convinced he had tried to make his limb a raisin on purpose. "Mark, eh? Unfortunate name."

He shrugged. "It's worked well enough for me for the past thirty-eight years." Scratch that thought. House scowled. Samson was one of those 'unbelievably nice' types, Greg could tell already. He and Cameron should get together and have a tea party.

"So Mark, what are you doing here?" Clara asked her husband, surprisingly, seeming mildly annoyed. "I thought you had an interview. And where's Matt?"

"I'm visiting my wife, hardly a crime. The interview is over and Matt is with Sammy. They're both on the way."

"Oh, so its the whole family you've invited then." She sat up a little straighter and talked over House's head. "Did he call up Will too?"

House whipped around to see one Allison Cameron casually leaning against the doorframe, hands crossed over her chest, "I think that he decided to limit himself to relatives in state, so Will won't be able to corrupt Matt with motorcycles, sex and rock and roll. Your child's innocence is safe"

House had to physically restrain himself from letting his jaw fall open as the conversation continued.

"At least until high school," Clara glanced casually at him, as if just remembering he was in the room. "Greg, you know my sister Al, don't you?"

"Half-sister," Cameron clarified and stood on House's side of the bed, smirking at him before turning to her sister, "No need to confuse the poor man."

The pieces of the puzzle began to fit themselves together. How Clara had known who he was, why Cameron looked so horrible two weeks ago, why Wilson had taken on the role of 'poor sweet little Cameron' protector.

Wilson. He had known for at least a week and hadn't told House a thing. Wonderboy was on Greg's naughty list.

House regained himself, pulling himself out of his musings, and looked up at his employee. "I didn't know you had a sister."

She looked blankly at him. "You never asked."

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Samson shoot Clara a confused look, at which she gave a small shake of her head.

Cameron turned her attention back to Clara once more, "He didn't bother you too much, did he? Because if he did, I can do something nasty to his Gameboy."

House, quickly realizing that he was desperately out-numbered, still a bit flabbergasted and not at all prepared to deal with this new realization, stood up and made his way around Cameron, heading for the door.

"You touch the Gameboy and I'll find a kitten and kick it."

Cameron raised an eyebrow.

"You know you wouldn't want that on your consciences, seeing as how you are one with all things cute and fluffy." He had made it halfway across the room without being summoned back, excellent. This might be a clean break, "Come to the office in twenty so we can diagnose Pratt."

"Cuddy let me off duty," Cameron grinned at House's scowl, "Which means you guys will have to find a way to cure the man on your own."

House turned around as he got to the door. "Well that's it then. No employee of the month for you."

With that he was out the door and limping down the hall, processing information as he reached the elevator.

If he hadn't been so annoyed at being out of the loop for so long, he would be positively giddy.

Between Cameron and Jimmy, House now had a fountain of anguish to draw from.

It was almost as good as General Hospital.

---

Chase was biting a pen in between his teeth as Foreman examined the mold from the Pratt mansion under a microscope, looking for anything that could have caused their patient's reaction.

From the disgusted look on his colleague's face, Chase was going to assume that they were no closer to finding the source of the problem.

"Let's just say we found it and send him home," Chase suggested as he removed the pen from his mouth.

Foreman let out a frustrated groan and flopped down into a nearby chair, looking defeated. "I would agree with you whole-hearted, if only I had abandoned all of my morals."

"You survived med school with them intact?"

"Yes, unlike some." Foreman stared at Chase pointedly.

Chase rolled his eyes. "I am not wholly without ethics, despite what you may think."

"You sure do a damn good job at hiding it."

Chase shook his head and put the pen back in his mouth. Just because he wouldn't be willing to jump off of a bridge for a patient, people tended to assume the worst of him, and Chase supposed he couldn't blame them. He was a doctor, after all. He was supposed to care, be sympathetic and kind, strive for world peace and the betterment of all persons everywhere.

Really, Rob, upon receiving his PhD, had no idea that he had signed up for such things. He became a doctor because it was what was expected of him rather than out of any love or drive of his own. It had, in truth, been one of his mother's dying dreams for him, and Chase didn't have the courage, or the heart, to deny her of that last wish.

In much the same sense, Chase didn't particularly care for his patients. Granted, he didn't wish any ill upon them, but he wanted them in and out of his life as quickly as possible, no strings attached. The key, Chase learned, was apathy. If you didn't care about anything, about anyone, then you could never be hurt, never be disappointed.

Killed a patient? Tough luck. Broke up with a girlfriend? Time to move on. Father died? Try to ignore it.

Through the years, and a series of hard lessons Rob would never forget, he had learned that the only person, or thing, he could ever depend on was himself. That people were very rarely what they seemed, could never be fully trusted and caused little save for trouble for those who took a keen interest in their affairs.

He had made attempts, many, to have real relationships with people. He tried with his mother, despite the vodka, tried with his father, until he couldn't take the dissatisfaction any longer. There had been girlfriends, a few, who were more than a good time. He would have been willing to try, with Cameron.

But he had managed, somehow, to screw up every effort he had made towards honestly and truly caring for someone. Whether through bad selection of people to give a damn about, or an eventual loss of interest, every attempt he made was met with the bitter disappointment he had spent the majority of his life trying to avoid.

It simply didn't seem worth the effort any more.

So, he patted each patient on the head, told them the same fake stories, pretended to be their friend. And when they left never thought of them again. It was easier for everyone that way.

This, more than anything else, was what made Chase respect House. He cared about no one except himself, didn't need anyone and managed it all with a wit and intelligence that Chase could appreciate. He was good at what he did even if he didn't always like what he did, and Chase hoped that he could manage a similar feat of his own.

These, however, were the sorts of things that Foreman just couldn't understand. Why the man demanded excellence from himself Chase would never understand, almost as if he was trying to compensate for something.

Foreman stretched in his seat, and then quickly moved back to the microscope, "Maybe I missed something."

Chase grinned, "Maybe," he pulled a crossword puzzle out of his lab-coat pocket, taking the pen out of his mouth "What's an eleven letter drug that's used to treat insomnia, seizures, and convulsions, and to relieve anxiety and tension before surgery?"

"Barbiturate," Foreman mumbled as he put his face back to the eyepiece.

Rob marked down the name and let Foreman do the super-doctor thing, puzzling over the next word until he heard a small tap behind him.

Both he and Foreman turned around to the entrance of the lab, seeing a woman standing outside.

She was pretty, tall, slender and graceful while also possessing a muted strength, as if with the blink of an eye she could easily, capably, defend herself. She was in all shades of brown, with nearly black hair, cut to her shoulders, smoothed down and straightened, chocolate skin that seemed incredibly smooth and large honey eyes. From far away, her features seemed perfect. Neither too large nor too small, each aspect in symmetry to create a nearly ideal picture.

That, perhaps, was what was most remarkable about her appearance. Not that she was beautiful, but rather that she appeared so balanced, as if each feature was perfectly molded and placed in its intended spot.

Chase's interest was peeked. A beautiful woman had the potential to secure a solid two weeks of fun, at least.

Foreman waved the woman in and she entered, his colleague promptly going back to the microscope, leaving Chase to socialize.

"I'm sorry," she said with a laugh as she came in, walking right up to the men without any apparent concern for the odd looking substances that seemed to accumulate in the lab, "We were looking for the oncology department and ended up here."

Chase's eyebrow raised, "We?" He certainly hoped that she wasn't a psych patient, which was a possibility, with her standard-issue jeans and blank red T-shirt.

From around the woman's hip a boy, about ten years old, appeared.

And just as quickly as it was created, Chase's interest was destroyed.

"Yes, we." She grinned at the kid and then looked back up at the two men. "Could you guys help us out here, or should we continue to wander?"

The boy, with lighter skin, darker, curly, hair and deep-set brown eyes, grinned. "Dad says she has no 'sense of direction,' so you should probably help." He was examining everything he saw, glancing from microscopes to fluids on the shelves to the lights at every station, seemingly enthralled by every detail the room had to offer. Chase was amazed he had kept track of the conversation, with the fervor with which he observed his surroundings.

Rob sighed softly to himself, getting over his internal regret as he stood. As inoffensive as this particular child seemed, and as nice this woman looked, Chase and kids did not mix. "I'll show you were it is. Which room do you want?"

The woman smiled, and Chase swore it made the room brighter. "Thanks, it's 213."

Chase blinked. "213? Clara Samson's room?"

The smile widened, "Ah, already creating a reputation, I see. Yes, she's my sister-in-law."

"Aunty Sam," the boy was now peering over the counter where Foreman's attention was still devoted to the microscope, the young boy trying to see what Foreman was observing. "Can I stay in here?"

Aunty Sam?

Chase, in his head, danced a jig.

---

Jimmy closed his office door as he stepped inside, turning and leaning his forehead against the solid wooden surface.

He had just returned from visiting Margaret Roberts before her first chemotherapy session. He had smiled, let the words of reassurance flow from his mouth as if he was reading from a script. Assuring her that the benefits of the treatment far outweighed the risks. That chemo saved thousands of lives each year, that if she needed any help there were support programs she could join designed for people in her situation. That he would be happy to answer any questions she may have.

She had given him a small, grateful, grin, thanking him just before she was taken to start the therapy, seeming as if a great burden had been lifted from her shoulders.

It wasn't enough.

So Wilson went to Diagnostics.

House wasn't there, nor was his team.

He searched the roof, the pediatrics lounge, the men's room. Greg had momentarily disappeared from the face of Princeton-Plainsboro, leaving James alone with his thoughts when he least wanted it.

So Wilson went down to the clinic and worked for six hours, treating headaches, runny-noses and coughs. Every time he finished with one patient, another file was placed in his hand, another task set before him. Tasks he could solve, illnesses he could cure. With a few words and a bandage he made the clinic patients smile and heal their pain, making it easier for him to ignore the current state of affairs that made up his life.

Finally, one of the nurses sent him away, informing him that the clinic was closing and that he could return to his office now. They had really appreciated his help today, she had said, as one of the doctors scheduled to perform clinic duty hadn't shown up.

He had nodded and left, at a loss as to what to do. Out of habit he went back to his office, his calm in the storm.

James closed his eyes and inhaled the scent of the pine of the door, savoring its texture. He was willing to latch onto anything if it meant he could forget.

--

Wilson felt his heart stop for a beat. "You're pregnant?"

"Yes."

Shock was the first thing to hit Jimmy, causing his mind to momentarily remain blissfully empty as he contemplated the word 'pregnant'.

This was shortly followed by an inexplicable joy that made him grin like an idiot to his empty office. Thank God House wasn't there to see it. Greg would never let him hear the end of it.

James had always wanted to be a father, perhaps foolishly. He was far from the ideal role-model for a child, but the thought of being a parent, of guiding and caring for another life, to hold his child in his hands and know that he had contributed to creating it. That was something he aspired to.

To be a parent was a role, a title, more significant than any claim he had to his life now, one that he had yearned for desperately for years.

"Julie, that's," how could he express how happy he was? What words could articulate how he felt? "Great." Understated, but hopefully she understood his basic sentiments. "How far along are you? Have you visited your doctor? Should I make an appointment for you?"

"James," her voice was steely, "I'm not going to keep it."

Another wave a shock ran through him, this time sobering. "What?"

"I can't. I won't." She sounded strained, but resolved.

"Why?" He found himself unable to form multi-syllable sentences.

"A baby would bring us back together, and I don't want that again," her voice hitched, "Feeling so alone and detached when you're supposed to be sharing your life with someone who loves you. I refuse to live that way again."

"We wouldn't have to be together," Wilson was not above pleading. Not for something like this, "plenty of parents are separated and take perfect care of their children. We could do it. We'd have to make a schedule, a few extra arrangements, but it's not impossible. We wouldn't even need to see one another, except when we were dropping the baby off. We could even-"

"James!"

He silenced at her outburst, and she took in a deep breath.

"We, what we had. None of it had any lasting significance. We were wasting our time, our lives, on one another. Five years that I will never get back are gone, all of them spent trying to convince you and myself that I was happy."

Her voice reached an unnaturally high pitch, but she continued talking, despite the attempts of her throat to close up on her. "I wasn't, James. I really wasn't. I was miserable. I hated what I had become, what you were becoming. We didn't love each other the way we needed to, and knowing that, that we failed at loving one another, is killing me. I remember each day we had with a growing resentment, a sense of guilt and anger that I allowed it to happen. Every memory of us is destroying me, making me hate you and myself.

"I'm tired of remembering. I want to forget. A baby won't allow me to do that."

"What about the good things?" He had to make her understand. To make her see that there was so much more than that. "You remember those, don't you? The day we met at the party? The dinners we used to go to every week? How we were so caught up in each other? Why can't our child be a testament to those things, instead of the bad? I want to remember us. The good part of us."

A pause. "I don't."

He sighed and rubbed his neck. "Julie, I can't let you do this. It's a mistake,"

"Are you saying that you're going to stop me? That I don't have the right-"

"No," James interjected quickly. "No, it's your decision, I know. But please, reconsider. After the baby is born you can give it to me, then you'd never have to see my face again. I swear, we'll be just like strangers."

"James, we already are just like strangers." Wilson could say nothing. He knew it was true. "I can't carry your baby. I'm sorry, but I've decided."

Wilson found himself frozen, one hand holding the phone to his ear, the other latched onto the back of his neck in a hopeless effort to provide himself with some relief.

"I just thought you should know. Let you state your case," Julie paused, and he could hear the desperation in her tone. "Please, try to understand." There was a small sniff, a barely audible gasp of breath.

"Goodbye James."

And with that she was gone, taking with her the brief spark of hope that had kindled in Wilson, snuffing it out before it had the chance to really burn.

--

The smell of pine wasn't working.

Wilson pushed himself off of the door and went to his balcony, pulling off his lab coat and tossing it onto his office couch as he opened the sliding glass and stepped outside.

It was raining, and the water instantly soaked through his dress-shirt and pants, ruining his silk tie and matting down his hair.

He loved the rain. It was soothing, peaceful.

But it wasn't enough.

With the rain came Sara, who he had chased down outside of her new dorm at their grad school. It was in that downpour that he had convinced her to give him a chance, to let him prove to her that he was worth her time and attention.

Julie enjoyed the rain too, although she never told him. Instead she would smile, secretly, on rainy mornings in the kitchen, thinking that he didn't see or notice her private love for light drizzles.

Wilson ran both hands through his hair, only barely resisting the urge to scream.

Sara had moved on and Julie wanted to forget.

So why the hell couldn't he?


	6. And For You To Know What I Mean

**Drenched**

**Summary**: House enjoys the company of a patient- obviously signaling the apocalypse, Wilson is getting a divorce, Chase is falling head over heels, Foreman's thinking of leaving the team and Cameron's sister has cancer. At least it's not raining. Yet.

**Disclaimer**: I told my mom that I wanted to own House when I grew up. To which she responded, "Oh, yes dear. That's a wonderful goal. Houses are so much nicer than apartments." Seeing as how she was obviously confused, I clarified, explaining that I didn't want _a_ house. I wanted House, the TV show. She laughed at me. Loudly. House belongs to David Shore and Fox. Not a sad, losery person such as myself. "It Doesn't Get Much Better Than This" is Nicole Burdette's. All I have is my mother's mad chuckling echoing in my head…

**Author's Note**: This would have been out sooner, I swear. However, I got sick last week. And unlike some skilled people, when I get sick I promptly lose all ability to think straight, much less write coherently. I shall try to develop the skill. Also, this chapter is huge. Kinda scary, even. I was going to break up into two sections, like that first chapter, and post the first half two days ago. But it just didn't seem like the break was natural. So, you had to wait. My apologies.

Moving on, I would like to request the services of a beta reader. Thanks to a review on "Her Name Was" by **Storm Medicine**, sense has been officially knocked into me. I make way too many stupid mistakes, and if I'm going to write a story I might as well do it properly. If anyone is interested, please contact me at: imsane(underscore)honest(at)yahoo(dot)com and I'll get back to you with the nitty-gritty details. (If I start getting any nasty spam, I'm so blaming you guys. –wink-) Sadly, this means you may have to wait a little bit longer in-between updates, but I think, in the long-run, a beta really would make the story more enjoyable, for everyone.

Medicine in this fic? Accurate? Huh?

This story is canon-compatible up to "Skin Deep."

Reviews/Reviewers are loved.

Thank you and enjoy!

---

**Chapter Five: And For You To Know What I Mean**

_I want my words to scream through you.  
I want the poem not to mean that much.  
And I want to contradict myself by accident  
And for you to know what I mean.  
-Nicole Burdette_

---

Chase was plotting his next move.

He had already separated her from the munchkin, and as such he felt that he was doing well. Granted, getting her alone had nothing to do with him, beyond a pleading look in Foreman's direction as the man reluctantly agreed to watch the child for a few hours, promising to bring him up to Oncology later. Nonetheless, the sense of accomplishment was doing wonders to boost Chase's confidence.

Currently, Rob was standing next to "Aunty Sam" in the elevator, waiting for the lift to reach their destination. "So," Chase fumbled for a conversation starter. "Is you're name really Sam Samson?"

The woman scowled and shot him an irritated glance out of the corner of her eye.

Crap.

Chase, the relationship wonder, had done it again. The one, seemingly innocent, comment he could come up with had rubbed a sore spot. Brilliant.

"Oh, well," Chase faltered, looking at her to see her positively glaring at him.

"I mean, there's nothing wrong if it is. It's actually kind of catchy." She had crossed her arms over her chest and was turning to face him head-on. His ship was definitely floundering.

"I mean, I don't know if every set of parents would do it, but yours were obviously willing to be unique and daring." She was tapping her foot now, in that 'I'm too annoyed to put my frustration into words' sort of way that all men knew and feared. The ship was sinking, and sinking fast.

"It's just, you know. Not every kid could handle a name like that with the dignity and refinement you have so obviously achieved. It's very impressive."

He looked up to her face cautiously, nearly flinching away from her, expecting screeching of some kind.

Instead he saw her scowling lips twitch.

Chase narrowed his eyes.

She burst into laughter. "The look," she gasped, taking in some air before she started to chuckle again, "on your face!" She bent over double, one hand to her stomach as she continued to roar and the other holding onto his arm to retain some balance.

Had he not been so overwhelmed with relief, Chase would have been giddy at the contact. "But-You...?"

She inhaled again, "'Your parents were obviously unique and daring,'" another small fit of giggling as she righted herself, taking her hand off of his forearm and smiling. "Priceless."

Chase found himself grinning while he glared, "You're a cruel person."

She flashed another smile and patted his shoulder. "Only to people I like."

That sounded promising. "And you've decided that you like me already?"

"Sure," she glanced at him, passing her gaze over his leather-clad feet all the way up to his head, smirking at his mop of hair. "You seem nice enough to me."

Chase smirked back. This might turn out to be an easier seduction than anticipated. The gods were smiling down upon him. "Well, I am, I suppose, a relatively nice and charming guy."

"Or your accent has me fooled into thinking you are."

"The accent never lies. We Australians are a very friendly bunch," he looked across the elevator at her, coming to the startling realization that she was nearly as tall as him. "And we also have the odd hobby of discovering the origins of interesting names..."

She rolled her eyes and reached out her hand, "Angela Samson."

Chase took it in his own, noting the calluses on the pads of her fingers, "Robert Chase." He reluctantly released her hand, "And yet I still don't know how you came about the title of 'Aunty Sam'..."

"Well, you see Robert," she face become earnest, "When two people love each other very much, like my older brother and his wife, and they're ready to take the relationship to the next level-"

Chase adopted a hurt expression. "Again with the needles cruelty."

She grinned, "I joined the baseball team in high school and they took to calling me Sammy."

"Ah, so you were a real slugger then?"

"Sure," she gave a sardonic smirk, "Or my last name was 'Samson' and we decided that it was infinitely cooler to use surnames while playing."

Chase nodded his understanding. He was certain his colleagues had first names, but why use them when Cameron and Foreman worked just as well?

"In any case," she turned to him, "it stuck."

"So do you still play baseball now?"

Rule one on getting a woman's phone number and/or a date; feign interest.

She laughed. "Oh, no. The team coach practically cheered when I graduated and he didn't have to keep me on the team any more." She pushed her hair behind her ears, "I actually illustrate children's books."

"Really?" That was a new one. "So you're an artist then?"

"Well, I don't know I'm an artist," she shot him another blinding smile, "But I am creative." A slight pause as she sent a suggestive look his way. "Very creative."

Chase wasn't sure he knew an appropriate way to respond.

Fortunately, at that moment the elevator dinged and the doors opened. "This is the floor."

He stepped out and Sammy followed, "And you? I know you're a doctor, but what's your specialty?"

"I work with the diagnostics department."

She caught up to him, "So that must mean you work with Al,"

It took him a moment to process, "You mean Allison?"

"Yep.

He had forgotten, for a moment, that Cameron was related to the energetic, beautiful and fiery woman walking next to him. A detail that could prove to be more than a little troublesome. It was generally idiotic to have a week-long 'fling' with a colleague's family member.

There was also the line to consider.

"Oh, here it is," Sammy looked to her right and opened the door to 213 before Chase had the opportunity to properly flee.

Rob looked in to see Clara in her bed, chatting with a large black man to her right, Cameron sitting in a chair on her left.

And he could almost see the line, The Line Not To Be Crossed, red and blaring up at him across the entrance of the room.

"Alright, I'm here," she smiled at her family members, "The fun can now begin."

The three people in the room stared blankly at the woman in the doorway as Chase tried to gain her attention so he could leave.

Clara broke the silence. "Sammy, I'm not sure how fun we can make cancer."

"Are you kidding?" Sammy strode in the room, leaving Chase gaping out in the hall, "This family? We can make anything fun."

She went over to Cameron and gave her a fierce hug, pulling out of it and holding her shoulders, staring at her intently. "We are getting together more often. My no good brother refuses to be accommodating and invite us both over dinner at the same time, and I need a weekly Al fix."

Cameron nodded, obviously holding in a smile, "Yes ma'am."

Sammy then turned to Clara, bending down and kissing the older woman's cheek. "You look fantastic."

Clara glanced down at her hospital gown and then back up at Sammy, eyebrows raised.

"It's true! You could wear a trash-bag and still look like a billion bucks."

Clara rolled her eyes, "Such a suck-up."

"But you love me in spite of it." Finally, she turned her attention to the man in the room. "Hi Mark."

He glowered at her. "That's it? Your sister-in-laws get praises aplenty, but you have nothing nice to say to me?"

She shrugged. "Not really, no."

"That's it," he strode around the bed and grabbed her in a head-lock, mussing her hair, "You will show more respect to your elders, missy!"

She was laughing from her awkward position, "Fine, uncle! Uncle!"

The man, Mark, grinned and let her go. "Much better," he winked at Allison, "You just need to know how to deal with the unruly youngins."

"Speaking of which," Clara smiled as Sammy rubbed down her hair, "Where is our changeling?"

Chase chose this time to interject, still from outside the room, "He's with Foreman."

Cameron seemed to notice him for the first time, "Chase," she smiled, "What're you doing here?"

"He was being quite the gentlemen and showing me the way," Sammy chimed, still smoothing her hair.

"Rob, it's good to see you again!" Clara waved her hand, beckoning him in, "Come on in from out of the hall and meet my husband."

Chase looked to Cameron, who seemed unfazed by her sister's invitation.

With a large breath of air, he stepped over the line.

---

There was a small tapping coming from somewhere behind Foreman.

He wasn't certain what it was, and this was a bit concerning. Especially since some things in the room, when tapped, were prone to shattering into an infinite number of tinny pieces. Tinny pieces that the janitors then had to clean up, all the while glaring at the cause of their extra labor. And Foreman was already on their hate-list simply for coming in contact with House on a fairly consistent basis. (It was almost as if when the man entered a room trash simply materialized, promptly making any space he had been twice as dirty as it was before he had sullied it.)

Hoping to avoid further antagonism from the maintenance crew, Foreman spun around to see the kid, the one that had been left under his supervision not five minutes before, poking at a glass vile with his fingernail.

Foreman sighed. Chase owed him, big time. In fact, Eric could envision his colleague doing an absurd amount of clinic duty in order to make up for this baby sitting. He was amazed by the lengths that man would go to in order to flirt with an attractive woman.

Romantic relationships, for Foreman, were secondary to his work. When he felt he had the time for such things, he would consider them. But as for now, when he was still striving to make a name for himself in the medical community, he simply had no patience to deal with the delicate workings of women.

The kid had picked up a vile and was examining it, holding it up to the light and twisting it.

This spelled disaster. "Be careful."

The kid gave him an annoyed look and continued to observe the glass. "I am," he looked up briefly. "What sort of stuff do you put in these things?"

Foreman smirked. "Lots of things," he looked down at his hands. "Blood, urine," he glanced up to see the boy quickly set the vial down, "the usual."

"Oh," the child had moved on and was now on the other side of the room, this time eyeing a computer.

Foreman felt it best to distract him, before he got curious and started pressing buttons. "What's your name?"

"Matt," his attention now on a microscope, "Yours?"

"Eric Foreman."

Matt nodded and continued his examination. "So what do you do in here anyway?"

"Run tests." Eric wanted to turn back to the mold, but knew better. The second he was focused again he would hear a crash and the microscope would be broken on the floor.

"Do you get to blow things up?"

Foreman smiled. "Sadly, no. Although Chase would love that."

"Chase?" He came around and sat on a chair next to the one Foreman was in, and Eric rotated accordingly to maintain the conversation.

"The doctor who just left with your aunt. He's an intensivist."

"So what kind of doctor are you?"

"Neurologist," noticing that Matt didn't appear to be too eager to bolt out of his newly acquired chair, Foreman turned back to the microscope "But I work in diagnostics with Chase."

"So you two work with my Aunt Al then?"

Foreman looked up from the device and shot the boy an amused look. "Aunt Al?" Foreman grinned. "Yes, I work with her." He turned back to the scope.

"Cool." Matt looked down at the counter and began to trace patterns on the black surface. "So do you like it?"

Foreman returned his gaze to the boy. "My job?"

Matt nodded.

Eric heaved a sigh, "Sometimes."

"Why only sometimes?" The child had a deceptively innocent expression on his face.

How to put this delicately? "My boss makes me want to shove a sharpened pencil up my eye socket."

Matt grinned at him. "But I didn't ask you if you liked your boss," he picked up a pair of forceps that were lying on the counter. "I asked if you liked your job."

Foreman narrowed his eyes, both annoyed by the boy's audacity and impressed by his intelligence. "The boss comes with the job."

"But other than your boss you like it?"

Foreman sighed. "Sure."

"Then you like your job. The stuff that comes with the job isn't the same thing as the job itself." Matt smirked.

Foreman was glaring. He was irritated, mostly because the little bugger was right.

Foreman did like his job. It was challenging and made him test his abilities on a daily basis, constantly forcing him to expand his knowledge and think outside of the boundaries med school had insisted he remain in. It required him to leave his comfort zone, to think in ways and methods he had never contemplated before.

Most importantly, however, his employment at Princeton-Plainsboro made him able to say, after over a decade of practicing and studying medicine, that he was still learning.

Diagnostics was exciting. It was interesting. It was perfect for him.

Or it would have been, if he felt that he was getting even a portion of the respect he felt he deserved.

With a clatter Eric was pulled from his thoughts, glancing up to see Matt giving him a sheepish look as the boy picked up the forceps he had just dropped.

He didn't like the feeling of being picked apart, especially by a ten year old. Time to change the focus of the conversation. "So why did you want to stay in here anyway? Isn't your mom upstairs in Oncology?"

"Yeah," Matt quickly hopped off the chair and went back to where he had first picked up the vial, "This stuff just looked more interesting."

Foreman stared at the boy, apprehensive. "Is that really the only reason?"

Matt nodded, peering at a glass dish, pointedly avoiding the doctor's stare.

Foreman raised an eyebrow. "You know, its okay if you're scared because you're mom's sick."

He turned around and glared. "I'm _not _scared." Matt had a determined look on his face, almost as if he was trying to convince himself just as much as Foreman. "It's just weird is all." He paused. "I don't want to see her without hair yet," he looked down at his feet, as if he was ashamed. He quickly shook his head, going back to his observations. "Besides, there's exciting stuff in here."

Without her hair yet?

Foreman considered the boy.

He was smart, almost frightfully so for a child so young. What's more, he appeared to be curious, fascinated by the, mostly ordinary, things that surrounded him. As such, Foreman speculated that Matt knew far more about his mother's condition than any other child in a similar place would. Too curious not to look up the information (the internet really was a wonderful tool), too smart not to realize the seriousness of the situation.

The curse of intelligence combined with the ambition to discover.

Put blandly, the kid was likely scared to death, despite his best attempts to prevent himself from being so. Yes, Matt was probably genuinely interested in the various wonders of the lab, but more likely the major reason he asked to stay was to use the room as a convenient distraction, a little detour before he faced his, possibly dying, mother.

Had anyone talked to him about the disease? About the circumstances? Matt obviously thought that Clara was already doing chemotherapy, when in reality she was just finishing up radiation, about to go into surgery. Being smart was a burden all its own, especially for one so young, but to be so and then have that intelligence taken for granted? For others not to recognize it, appreciate it? To have the full and complete capacity to understand the severity of a situation, and yet have no one explain it to him? That was cruelty all its own, which combined with the insult that they didn't believe him capable of comprehending the current circumstances.

That would be a fate far more unkind than anyone deserved, much less this boy.

"You want to look in the microscope?" Cameron was getting to him. He was becoming overly sentimental.

Matt turned away from the vials. "Yeah," he walked over to where Foreman was, the doctor getting out of his chair and gesturing for the boy to sit. "What's in it?"

Foreman grinned as the kid strained to reach the scope. "Mold."

"Really?" He had finally gotten comfortable, examining the substance and seemingly spellbound by it. "Cool."

---

It had been ten minutes, and Wilson had finally admitted to himself that getting soggy was not helping the situation.

He needed to leave, find a bar and consume massive amounts of alcohol. For the first time in over a decade, the beers just weren't going to cut it. It was time to get spectacularly drunk.

That, while perhaps not being more productive, would make him feel much better. Until the hangover the next morning, that is. At that moment however, Jimmy was far more willing to forego common sense for some immediate gratification.

With these thoughts firmly in mind, James left his balcony, coming in from the rain and dripping from head to toe as he rapidly snatched his brief-case and trench-coat. He left his office without a backward glance, throwing the trench over his shoulders and hoping that his damp clothes wouldn't seep through the thick wool before he got out of the hospital. He walked quickly through the halls, smiling at the people he knew as he passed, hoping that they didn't recognize his haste.

Jimmy didn't like to have his emotions on display. Oh, he slipped sometimes, most often while in the company of a certain hobbling miscreant. His friend knew how to make Wilson lose his temper and reveal far more than he had intended, almost as if Greg had an innate ability to irritate him. The older doctor exploited this gift gladly, using it to probe into the depths of a very private man.

Wilson was, generally, a closely controlled device. His emotions were held on a tight leash, Wilson monitoring them with a fierce watchfulness that allowed him to hide his true sentiments and thoughts. It was why he was capable of lying to House without getting caught, despite how honed Greg was to identifying untruths and his familiarity with James. When Rebecca came, Wilson was able to say that they were cousins, without House suspecting for a moment that he was lying. How he had been able to deceive his friend about the dinner with Stacey when Greg bought the monster truck tickets. Why House still didn't know that his first detox period was due to Wilson's plan or the real reason for James' divorce with Elise.

It was how no one knew how exhausted he was, after a month of barely sleeping in an empty apartment with thoughts of regret cycling through his head. How he was able to offer support to his patients instead of his own disappointment and despair when he informed them that they were dying. It's why he wasn't falling apart at the seams now.

James had only two weaknesses. One was anger, the method House typically exploited to wring information from his friend. Somehow, with a spark of rage his thoughts were no longer hidden, his haven destroyed and his usual tolerance eliminated. His empathy and insight into the minds of others would disappear and he would be left only with his own emotions and the intense desire to express them. During such times he could be cruel, harsh. Painfully honest without consideration or tact.

The other flaw was desire. Want clouded his judgment, deconstructed his thought process, made him stupid.

Years ago, when he was far younger, if he had wanted a woman she would gladly allow him to take her, only a few words of comfort and reassurance needed for him to get her in his bed. He was never unkind to them, never failed to offer them his friendship. But nor did he ever seek them out again.

Sara had been the first woman he had ever wanted with all strings attached. He had thought her perfect, every aspect of her being reaching a nearly divine level that he felt blessed for being allowed access to. He was the luckiest man alive, truly happy and content. Until he threw it away, because he had found someone else that he had wanted.

But even that hadn't stopped him. It was during his marriage to Elise that Jimmy had gained his reputation for sleeping around, and with good reason. Any mildly attractive woman he came in contact with ended up in his bed in a matter of weeks. He was still kind, still considerate and gentle, taking care of each one of them with a tenderness that they seemed to appreciate. The only difference being that, unlike when he was younger, he didn't try to care.

During college he had slept around because he had fallen a little bit in love with everyone he saw, because he had thought that he had wanted and needed each of them. Later, after Sara, he had slept with a multitude of women to prove that he didn't. To prove to himself that although he could sleep with every woman that passed his way, that he could hold them and soothe them, they meant nothing. And if he could prove that, he could forgive himself. Not easily, but if she, the tall woman with the red hair and the sad eyes who he had given up paradise for (the apple that tempted him, his desire the snake that urged him on), had meant nothing then in his heart, where it really mattered, he had been faithful.

But, as Greg said, Wilson's pathology was caring. For a time he had fooled himself. Had been convinced that they were meaningless flings whom he could conveniently forget, never think of again. But then, one night when Elise was out of town and James was staying with Greg, months after the infarction, he had gotten a call at three in the morning from an old one night stand, Julia. She had apologized profusely, sobbing as she explained that she was trapped in the bathroom at one of the local bars by a group of drunk men. She didn't mean to bother him, but there was no one she could think of to call, petrified as she was.

Jimmy had been out the door to go get her in two minutes.

After he had seen Julia safely to her apartment, never to come across her again, James had been forced to admit that although the sex had meant nothing, the women had. That he couldn't view them as anonymous bodies he had shared a night or two with, detaching them from their humanity so that he could forgive himself. They, and Sad Eyes, had been more than good fucks. They were people that he, however minutely, cared for. They held value for him beyond that of an easy lay. And because of that, he had no hope for atonement.

That was the night he stopped. When his want could no longer tempt him, could no longer make him lose his senses. The moment when he felt he had lost the ability to be redeemed, for hurting one wife and not knowing another, for using the women who had passed through his life as a sick form of compensation and validation. That night, he made the decision never to cheat again. And he hadn't, for all the good it had done him.

These were Wilson's sins; wrath and lust. The stones around his neck that made him sink instead of swim. That kept him from being as detached as he so desperately wished he could be during times like this.

"Doctor Wilson?"

James jerked his head up quickly to see that he had reached to first floor, a nervous looking nurse holding the door open for him as she sent him a worried glance.

"Are you alright?"

"Thank you Maria," he said as he stepped out of the small room and gave her a grin, "I'm fine, just tired." He sighed. "It's been a long day."

She smiled. "Well you were in the clinic for most of it. I'm surprised you're still standing."

They walked to the front entrance, chatting about the horrors of the clinic, nothing important, and parted ways once they were outside. Wilson hadn't parked in the garage, despite the obvious signs of rain he had seen on the horizon in the morning. He had, for some idiotic reason upon arriving at the hospital, felt like a walk.

He was really setting himself up for misery.

He shouldered his coat over his head and walked quickly to his car, starting to shiver from a combination of his already wet clothes and the mild storm surrounding him. On his way to his parking space he stepped in a puddle, soaking his left leg up to mid-calf, nearly tripped over a fallen tree-branch and dropped his brief case into a different puddle.

The gods were against him.

By the time he was inside his car he was more than ready for some scotch.

He threw his briefcase onto the passenger seat, perhaps just imagining the small splash it seemed to make as it thumped into the chair, and turned the ignition.

To be met with sputter from the engine.

He turned the key again. Denial was always the most astute policy when one found themselves in a less than desirable situation.

Nothing.

Wilson let out a loud sigh and rubbed his face with his palm.

"God, you know I don't ask a lot of you, right?"

Jimmy was met with silence.

"Right." Silence meant agreement as far as Wilson was concerned. "And I've had a really bad day. The sort of day when your greatest hope is crushed and your largest mistake is brought back to bite you in the ass." Perhaps a bit vulgar, but he hoped God would be lenient, given the circumstances. "Now, I know I've done some horrible things in the past and that I probably don't deserve any act of good will on Your part. But please," he looked up to the roof of his car, "give me a break. All I want is to get so drunk that in the morning I will see three of everything and have a headache more painful than being smacked upside the head by a baseball bat. This will likely only add to my suffering, helping You punish me further. I swear I'll give my keys to the bartender when I get there and call a cab to get home. I really won't be hurting anyone except for myself. So please, be a pal and help me out here."

Wilson turned the key in the ignition again only to be met with the same pitiful sputtering.

He sighed in defeat, banging his head against his steering wheel and causing his car to let out a loud prolonged honk, a noise he ignored as he internally cursed his luck, wives, life and God for making him suffer so.

Moments later, there was a knock on his window.

He jumped at the noise, abruptly ending the honking, looking up to see the hesitant smile of Allison Cameron as she waved at him from outside, an umbrella over her head to protect her from the rain.

Resisting the urge to thump his head against the wheel again, feeling unable to deal with normal human interaction by this point, Wilson unrolled his window.

"Hey," he tried his best to pull off a charming grin.

"Hi," Cameron's smile widened. "I just came over because I got worried by all the noise. Is everything okay?"

Wilson nearly chuckled bitterly. Everything was just peachy. "Oh, yes, everything's fine. My car just won't start. The honk was my final outburst of frustration before I called a tow truck." He forced a laugh, of the non-bitter variety, and looked up at her. "How about you? I heard that House had you working all night. I thought that you went home while I was at the clinic?"

"I did," she smirked, "and had a nice five hour nap while I was there."

"And you woke up to come back to work?" Wilson gave her a look of mock severity. "Doctor Cameron, I'm ashamed."

She laughed. "I just came back to visit Clara. I'm actually just leaving after spending the past three hours with the family."

Wilson nodded tiredly, "Well that's good. As long as you weren't being productive for House, you're forgiven."

"After making me work for twenty-eight hours? That man's going to have to beg me to so much as pick up a patient file."

Wilson snorted, lacking the will to summon up another laugh.

She grinned slightly while taking stock of his appearance, grimacing when she saw his damp hair and the wet patches on his jacket. "You look beat," she sent him a sympathy loaded glance. "And soaked," another sweet smile. "Why don't you let me give you a ride home?"

Of course that's what she would offer. If he hadn't felt as if he was on the verge of complete emotional upheaval, he would have been happy to take her up on it. But at that moment, James did not want any companionship, however brief, that did not come on the rocks and with delightfully mind numbing side effects. "No, no. Don't worry about me, I'll be fine. I can just wait for the tow truck get here and hitch a ride then."

"Wait for that in the morning," she adjusted the grip on the handle of her umbrella, shifting her feet slightly. "You're car will be fine here. You obviously need rest, and you know those truckers take at least an hour and a half to get anywhere." She grinned, "Come on. It's the least I can do after all you've done for me this past month."

Wilson looked down at his hand as he rubbed the constant kink in his neck with the other. "I should really get it handled tonight." Dammit, he wanted to wallow in his self-pity for one night, that was all. He would be back to his normal self in the morning, really he would. Why was she, the fates that be and his car making that so difficult?

"James," he quickly looked up at the use of his name, Cameron staring seriously at him with a concerned expression. It, his name, sounded almost odd coming from her lips, as if she was still sounding out the letters, unused to speaking them, like they were in a foreign tongue. "Let me take you home," her tone softened, almost pleading, "please?"

A combination of determination and vulnerability highlighted her features. Her eyes begged and demanded him to give her this opportunity to help him, to erase some of the debt she felt he was due. Shivering in the cold, grasping onto the umbrella with a white knuckled grip as a particularly violent gust of wind whipped through the parking lot, she stared at him, locking him with her gaze, her will too strong to break for him away from.

In that moment, he could deny her nothing.

There was a pause as he simply stared at her before he finally, inevitably, gave in. "Okay."

Jimmy grabbed his briefcase from where he had tossed it, Allison smiling triumphantly as she backed away from his door, giving him room to exit. He stepped out, ducking underneath her umbrella as they made their way across the lot, heading for Cameron's car.

"So, where do you live?" She asked, making an effort to hold the thin fabric shelter high enough so he didn't have to stoop.

Wilson pretended not to hear her as they made their way quickly across the lot, moving closer to the immunologist's small frame, trying to make the task of keeping them both protected from the elements easier for her.

Meanwhile, he contemplated his options. He could have her drop him off at home and walk to the nearest bar. The only problem with this plan being that it would be a sixteen block walk. He supposed he could have a cab drive him, although that would be expensive and limit the number of scotches he could down.

Or he could ask Cameron to take him.

He dismissed the idea instantly. It was a horrible suggestion, a disaster waiting to happen. Cameron wasn't the sort of person who would just let something like that go. She'd want to know why, demand explanations. And then he would have to relive the conversation tonight with Julie, the one he had been trying so desperately to forget. Besides, it would sound ridiculous; she would lose all the respect she had for him. James Wilson, going to a bar, alone, at 7:30 at night to drown his sorrows. A more pathetic image, Wilson could not imagine.

All around, it was a very bad plan of action, one he decided to avoid. He would just call a cab when he got home. A few less scotches that night wouldn't prevent him from getting deliriously drunk.

They had reached the car, Wilson already comfortable in the passenger's seat as Cameron closed her door, looking over to him, "You got an intersection for me or should I drive around blindly for a few hours?"

Wilson took a breath, ready to give her an address.

Unfortunately what came out was, "Actually, could you take me to a bar?"

God dammit.

Wilson almost banged his head against the glove box at his sheer idiocy.

---

"So... The family's close then?"

Chase felt like a shock victim. It was just astounding, how much activity had taken place in that small room during the brief time he had been present

After being ushered in, he had shook hands with Mark, waved to Clara and then stood back while chaos ensued. He had kept his distance from everyone, trying his best to give Cameron her space, to not intrude in her personal life, leaving him to view the spectacle as the family began to catch-up. While Clara and Sammy talked about Sammy's latest book, Cameron and Mark discussed the layout of PPTH, agreeing that it was far more confusing than necessary.

And then they abruptly switched, almost at the same instant, Mark now asking Sammy if she was sure it was alright that Matt was with Foreman while Cameron asked if there was anything Clara wanted her to tell Will when she called him tonight?

Another switch, and Sammy was demanding to know where Cameron got her shoes and Clara was asking what they were going to have for dinner.

Moments later, Cameron had seen the slightly dazed expression on Chase's face and smiled, saying her goodbyes and informing everyone that she had to go home, patting Chase on the shoulder as she left.

On the bright side, this was a clear sign that Cameron wasn't bothered by him spending time with her family, as she appeared more than comfortable leaving him alone with them.

On the downside, it also meant that she left him alone with them.

And truthfully, Chase was a bit petrified.

Deciding that the topic of food needed to be brought to the attention of the room at large, Clara had then asked who was going to hunt down rations for the starving masses. Chase quickly volunteered, feeling as if he was in the midst of a hurricane and needing to breathe some calm air. Sammy had offered to help him, and soon they were both taking orders.

Chase was now standing in line at the cafeteria downstairs, Sammy to his right, as they waited in line to be fed.

"You could say that. We don't get together much, so when it happens we tend to be a bit enthusiastic."

Chase stared at her, hoping it managed to convey how understated he found the term 'a bit enthusiastic' to be.

"Oh stop looking at me like I'm a lunatic." She shoved him lightly, grinning. "People are allowed to like their families, you know."

"Sure, people are allowed to," Chase grabbed a ham and cheese sandwich for Matt, "Just not many people do."

"Pish," Sammy snatched a salami sub for Mark, "What you mean is that you think we're insane because _you_ don't like _your_ family."

"Not especially, no." He hadn't liked his father since he left had abandoned Rob to deal with the trials of caring for an alcoholic parent alone. A few years, he had come to hate his mother as soon as a bottle touched her lips. Towards the end, those times had been far more frequent than those when she was sober. Not to say that he hadn't loved his parents, but there is difference between loving someone out of habit and liking them by choice.

"And why's that?" Sammy was looking at him earnestly, seemingly genuinely interested.

Oh no. None of that. Chase was not the sort of person to pour out the trials and woes of his life to a woman he had met a half an hour ago. "Do I need a reason?"

"It helps," she picked up a roast beef combo for Clara, catching his eyes with her own briefly.

"Look," Chase reached for a turkey sub for himself, "why I didn't like my family doesn't matter. What's important is that I didn't." He set down the sub on his tray and continued on down the line without looking at her, hoping she would discover his desire to end the conversation.

"Didn't?" Apparently, she was not easily deterred. "Have you changed your mind since the days of your youth? Seen the error of your ways?" She smiled.

"No. They're just not around anymore for me to dislike."

A small pause. "That's harsh."

"But honest." He finally glanced at her, seeing that she had snagged a meatball sandwich for herself. "Look, I'm not saying it's bad what you have with you're family, it's just not something I can appreciate. As a rule, people hate their family. People who say they don't are just keeping up appearances." He looked away from her, picking up a bag of chips.

"Hmm..." She took the sandwich for Matt off of his try and placed it on her own, smiling as she pulled a wallet out of the small purse that hung from her shoulder, "Alright, Doctor Chase. I'll make a wager with you," she handed her money to the casher and turned back to him. "I bet that if you spend as much time with my family as I do, you'll love them by the end of the month."

Chase raised an eyebrow. "Will I?" This, Rob could deal with. Flirting in disguise was much easier for him to interpret than his own feelings. "An interesting proposition. One small problem though," he moved forward as she finished and set his own purchase in front of the register. "I don't think I'll see your family half as often as you will."

"I disagree, not that it matters," she shrugged, "I'll only make you come and socialize with the gang when I'll be visiting Clara. Three times a week for a few hours in the evening. You could manage to slip away for that long, couldn't you?"

This seemed almost too easy. A reason to skip out of work and a bet he was sure to win. There had to be a catch. "And what are we betting on here?"

"Dinner." She smirked as he finished paying and they moved out of the way for the people behind them. "The loser of the bet pays." She balanced her tray with one hand and held out her other, "Do we have a deal?"

Chase accepted her hand, again marveling at it's rough texture. "We have a deal."

"Good," she broke the shake and struggled with her tray, "Now help me with these sandwiches."

Smiling, Rob took a sandwich from her tray and transferred it to his own, leading the way back to Clara's room.

When they arrived, Sammy entered with a bang.

"We come bearing food!"

Chase looked in to see that Matt had been returned to his parents, the boy sitting comfortably at the foot of his mother's bed, grinning at his aunt's entrance.

Mark rolled his eyes, unimpressed. "I hope you're not waiting for any type of worship or praising. I'm too hungry," he held out his hand. "Gimme."

Sammy pouted and gave the man his sandwich, passing out the others with far less enthusiasm than that with which she had entered.

Mark sighed dramatically. "You know I'm kidding."

Sammy continued to dispassionately hand out sandwiches.

"Don't guilt me Sammy. You know I hate guilt."

A sad sigh from the woman.

Mark gave Chase a look that clearly stated, 'Women,' in that exasperated yet affectionate way that all men knew. Responding to the unvoiced command, he recited, "Thank you Sammy."

She grinned. "Much better."

Clara laughed. "The power of the younger-sister pout,"

"An art I have most definitely mastered."

Chase sent Mark a glance of sympathy and found an empty chair near the exit of the room, ready to bolt if he felt the need.

Sammy turned her attention to her nephew. "Hey squirt. You have fun with Doctor Foreman?"

"Yep. I got to look at mold under a microscope." The boy looked so obviously excited it was almost painful. Chase took a bite of his sandwich, grinning. He was certain he was staring at Foreman-Junior.

"That's..." Mark searched for words, finally deciding on an uncertain, "nice."

Sammy shook her head in shame. "Kid, we have to get you interested in some sports," she grabbed a chair from next to Mark and brought it next to Chase, smiling briefly at his surprised expression before turning back to Matt and sitting down. "This mold fascination will get you mauled once you're in high school."

Matt looked down at his shoes.

"Nonsense," Clara eyed her son as she unwrapped her own meal. "The boy's smart, he doesn't need sports!" Matt turned and grinned at her. "Don't listen to her, Bud. She played softball and she finger-paints for a living."

Sammy stuck out her tongue at her sister-in-law.

"And while she's getting dirty," Clara smiled, "you'll be ruling the world." She ruffled the boy's hair fondly and went back to her sandwich.

Matt positively glowed with smugness.

Chase grinned as he took another bite of his food, turning as he felt eyes on him to stare at Sammy. She was smiling rather evilly. Chase was instantly nervous.

"Oh, by the way guys," she looked towards her family, all of whom looked up from their meals when she spoke, "we have to make Rob here love us by the end of the month or I have to buy him dinner." Chase glared. Had he been a shyer person, he would be blushing by this point. He liked having fun with women, flirting with them. He just didn't like people, especially that particular woman's family, aware of the details. "So do your best to be charming."

Chase was prepared for the big-brother lecture, and so was particularly surprised when Clara and Mark both groaned.

"So you're the next poor sod then?" Clara shook her head sadly, winking.

"Hey!" Sammy narrowed her eyes at the woman.

"She's just warning him," Mark adopted an equally serious expression. "She gives you any trouble, you just come to me. I'll put her in her place." He pretended to flex and his family seemed to give a collective snort.

Chase looked to Sammy to see a combination of irritation and fondness overtaking her features. Rob had to join in on the fun. "So, she has a reputation then? A real man eater?"

"Oh yes," Clara nodded, a solemn expression on her face. "It's horrible. Men are never the same after Sammy spends a few hours with them. Most of them run off sobbing."

"Not to mention she drives like a woman possessed," Mark shuddered from his seat, swallowing. "Every time I get out of a car after she's been driving I feel the need to kiss the ground at my feet and scream 'Land!' in relief."

"And her house is really messy," Matt added. "The floor's covered with paper and other junk. You can't even see the carpet."

"Yeah, and all the toxins from the paint don't help make the space more homey," Clara bit down onto her sandwich again.

Chase nodded. "I'll be sure to get a gas-mask."

"You're all evil." Sammy brought her sandwich to her mouth and glared.

Everyone laughed.

"You know we only do it because we love you," Clara said, grinning.

"So you say," she muttered, using her sandwich to try to hide her grin, a smile that Chase could see easily from his position next to her.

"Hey, Rob?"

Chase looked up to see Matt staring at him intently.

"Yeah?"

"Why does your hair look like something's run over it?"

There was an awkward silence, during which Chase resisted the urge to smooth down his hair self-consciously.

There was a small snort from the bed, Clara holding one hand over her mouth, desperately trying to stop the laughter from escaping.

But it was a lost cause.

In moments the entire room was roaring with laughter, Chase chuckling just as hard as the next person.

This might be a harder bet to win than he had originally anticipated.

---

Cameron was back at home, in bed, pajamas on and more than ready for sleep to overtake her.

And yet, she found herself staring blankly up at her ceiling, thinking of James Wilson instead of getting the much needed rest she knew she had been sorely lacking these past few days.

But something was wrong. It was more than just the bar, although that seemed more than a little out of character for the oncologist. Even before he has asked her for a ride, she had seen signs of disturbance to the doctor's psyche. Under normal circumstances, she was sure she would have been none the wiser about Wilson's obviously shaken state, but during their encounter she caught a glimpse of defeat. It was brief, only when she had first knocked on his window, almost as if the surprise had tricked the reaction out of him. But it was enough. From a man who rarely showed any emotion more unpleasant than a mild irritation, the second of despair was more than enough to send the alarm bells in Cameron's head ringing.

She hadn't mentioned it, keeping the conversation light and only just managing to convince him to let her take him home. When he had asked to be taken elsewhere, Allison had agreed and only just managed to stop herself from prying, internal reminders that that the personal affairs of James Wilson were none of her business halting her concerned questions.

But she couldn't stop thinking about it. That momentary slip of his defenses, the fleeting vulnerability that touched his features. Who did Wilson have to turn to? House? No. Wilson was many things, but an idiot he was not. To go to House with inner turmoil and expect genuine sympathy and concern was the epitome of naivety.

Cameron did have an intense desire to shelter broken things. To help them mend, if she could. After all Wilson had given her, done for her, she was just going to leave him alone? Dealing with something that, obviously, had disturbed him greatly? It might not be any of her business, but the doctor may not have had anyone at all to turn to. The least she could do was offer to help. After all, the worst he could do was send her away.

With a sigh, Allison gave up on sleeping, rising from bed and grabbing a pair of jeans, internally calling herself an overly-sentimental fool as she prepared to go to the bar where she had dropped Wilson off.

More likely than not she had imagined the moment, and when she arrived all she would be met with would be concerned looks and a very confused Wilson.

Twenty minutes later, she was walking into the high-class establishment, searching until she saw a hunched figure on the far-end of the bar.

Cautiously, she approached, noting the thick wool trench-coat Wilson still had on, the briefcase leaning against his bar stool, and the utter look of despair on his face as he twirled the liquid in his glass, seemingly entranced by the amber liquid.

"Wilson?"

"Hm?" He looked up drowsily, blinking when he saw her. "Cameron," he nodded once, as if reassuring himself that, yes, this was definitely Cameron. "What're you doing here?"

Cameron, blushing slightly, resisted the need to stare at her toes. "I was worried about you. I thought you might be able to use a friend."

Wilson smiled as he waved a hand at her, rolling his eyes. "I'm fine." He took a large sip of his drink. Scotch, it seemed. "Go home and get some rest." He didn't look at her as he said it, keeping his eyes fixed on his glass.

Suspecting that her concern had indeed been warranted, Allison slipped into the barstool next to him. "Do you mind if I stay, instead?"

He looked at her, no doubt noting her determination, and gave up on any attempts of sending her away that he might have had.

Wilson sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Suppose not."

She smiled slightly as she waved away the bartender. Someone had to drive her car home, and it sure as hell wasn't going to be the oncologist. She looked sideways at him, noting how awkward and uncomfortable he suddenly looked.

"Sorry," he muttered, sipping at his drink.

Cameron blinked. "What for?"

"For making you worry," he hung his head slightly, "I know this," He gestured to himself and held up his glass of scotch, "isn't how you usually see me. I swear I'll sober up before poking your sister with anything."

Allison smiled. "Thank you. That's very reassuring, if unneeded."

He looked up at her sharply.

"I trust you, Wilson. I know you wouldn't risk any unnecessary harm to my sister." He seemed slightly shocked by the statement, so she continued to speak. "So why are you like... this?"

Wilson shook his head emphatically, saying nothing but taking another swing from his glass.

She sighed and decided that James Wilson and Gregory House could go head-to-head in terms of stubbornness. "I just want to help."

"I know," he smiled sadly at her, "but sometimes there's nothing you can do." Another gulp of alcohol, "Go home Cameron. I'll see you in the morning."

"You can't brush me aside so easily," Cameron started at the man intently, trying to convey her concern through her gaze. "I might not be able to solve your problems, but I could listen."

"I don't think that would be terribly practical. Besides," he raised his glass to the bartender, "I got good ol' George to listen to me whine." George waved from the other end of the bar, drying a glass. "There's honestly no need to subject yourself to my miserable company."

"Wilson," Allison grabbed his elbow, forcing him to look her dead in the eye. She took on the same steely yet concerned expression she had adopted to convince him to let her give him a ride earlier in the day, hoping that the tactic would prove to be just as effective here. "I've been at home for the past hour trying to sleep and failing because I've been worried about you. I know it's not rational, that you probably find me more irritating than helpful right now and that you're convinced there's nothing you think I can do to make it better. But let me try? Please?"

He stared at her, in that slightly baffled yet pensive way that made Allison believe that he saw something in her that she herself had missed. Then he let out a large breath, bringing the glass to his lips and taking another long swallow, lifting his free hand to the back of his neck.

"Mrs. Pratt is my ex-wife. My first ex-wife."

Cameron blinked. "That would be awkward."

Wilson raised his eyebrows and took another sip of scotch, "Yeah." He set down the glass. "I saw her this morning and ran out of the Diagnostics Office. Think I ruined Greg's carpet." He paused, "I feel almost bad about that."

"Don't," Cameron grinned, "the only reason you can't see the stains on it is because I bought a rug to cover them up." Wilson smiled (her goal achieved), and she brought them back to the subject at hand. "You ran out of the office?"

Wilson laughed. "Yeah. A bit like a twelve year old, right?" His smile faded and his face became serious, hardening his features. "But I don't know what I would do if I had to face her."

Cameron all but nudged him on when he paused, Wilson looking at her expectant face and sighing.

He took another swing from his drink before continuing. "I had an affair. Once. While married to her anyway," Cameron resisted the urge to flinch. "I wasn't going to tell her, but I could never hide anything from Sara. After she knew, and I had seen how heartbroken she had been, I went out of the house for hours. Too guilty to be in the same room with her. When I came back, she was gone. It," a pause as he seemed to search for words, "it destroyed her."

He sighed. "Doing that to her... It's the worst thing I've ever done. The biggest mistake I ever made." He looked down at his hands, holding onto the glass, "She probably hates me, she _should_ hate me, for what I did. It certainly made me hate myself." Another swallow. "I didn't even try to find her, when she left. I knew I didn't deserve her."

There was a small silence, and Allison jumped in with a question. "Have you talked to her, since the divorce?"

"No, I've been too ashamed to seek her out. I don't think she ever wanted to see me again, in any case. That she wouldn't want me to intrude on her life."

"You should talk to her now." Allison widened her eyes, surprised at her own audacity. It was most defiantly not her position to give Doctor James Wilson, one of the most renowned oncologists in the country and best friend of her boss, relationship advice.

"And say what? 'I'm sorry for being an utter moron and simultaneously destroying your trust and the best thing that I ever had going for me'?" He downed another mouthful of scotch. "For some reason, I think that would be highly inadequate."

"That's not the point." If Cameron had been capable of physically shoving her foot down her throat, she would have done it.

Wilson turned to her, tilting his head and flicking a lock of hair out of his face. "Then what is?" He seemed interested, intrigued.

Apprehensive, afraid she was over-stepping her bounds, Cameron began to speak. "You owe it to her." When he didn't begin to berate her, Allison continued. "To give her the opportunity to either forgive or condemn you, now that time has passed."

"Is that something that you think she would want? To see me again?"

"It's something _I_ would want." She looked up cautiously to see Wilson nodding his encouragement. More confident that her thoughts were welcome, she continued. "It doesn't seem as if she had the opportunity to confront you since your confession. She was never given the option of stating her case and then carrying on with her life, never able to have closure, whatever the outcome may have been."

She looked up to the defeated man next to her, determined to give him the truth. However painful it may be. "You need to give her the option of hating you, instead of functioning off of the assumption that she does. While it might make you feel better, to believe that somewhere she has been nursing her anger for all these years against you, that you are suffering properly for what you have done, it hasn't helped her." Cameron smirked without humor, "Even if she had wanted you to suffer, there's been no way for her to know that you have been, depriving her of any enjoyment she might have taken from the experience."

Wilson laughed bitterly and consumed the last drops of his drink, waving George over again.

Allison took in a breath, "Your shame has been doing nothing except preventing you from seeing her, from letting her have her say." She put a hand on his shoulder, attempting to reach the man beneath the rough and damp fabric, to give him some comfort. "You have to talk to her. While she's here, before it's too late."

Wilson nodded, exchanging his empty glass for a full one and staring at the amber liquid. "I know," he said softly. "I suppose I knew that from the beginning. Just didn't want to admit it." He looked up, raising his drink in her direction and managing to pull-off a drunken smile, "To Allison Cameron, who daily manages to get self-centered bastards to remove their heads from their own asses. Cheers," a gulp of the liquid went into his mouth.

Cameron smiled, "You promise that you'll speak to her tomorrow?"

"Yes," Wilson said as he threw back another swing, "Even though I'm still sensible enough to dread the prospect of it in the morning." He downed the rest of his glass and grimaced. "George, another please."

George looked from Wilson to Cameron and raised an eyebrow.

"Wilson, are you sure you should have ano-"

He interrupted her. "I saw that, you know," he glared at George before turning to Allison. "Yes, I'm sure. I haven't drunk myself to oblivion yet. I can handle at least three more glasses."

Cameron eyed the man wearily, certain that if he hadn't reached oblivion yet, he was awfully close. "Wilson, seeing your ex-wife again, although traumatic, isn't worth alcohol poisoning."

Wilson wagged a finger at her, "'Snot the only reason I'm here." He took in a deep breath. "Julie's pregnant."

George, who had been standing behind the bar and waiting for Cameron's go-ahead on another drink for James, dramatically nodded his understanding. He quickly pulled out another glass, filled it to the brim and passed it to Wilson, patting the doctor's shoulder in sympathy before he went to check on some other customers.

Now Allison glared at the bartender.

She turned back to Wilson, smiling. "That's wonderful! Congratulations!"

Wilson let out an ironic snort, "She's not keeping it." He gulped down some more scotch.

"What?" Cameron looked at her colleague, shocked. "She doesn't want a child?"

"Not with me."

"But-but... she's your wife!"

"Not any more." Wilson held up his left hand, Cameron seeing the slight tan-line around his finger, but no ring. "We got a divorce a month ago."

"Oh," Cameron looked at him sadly, "Wilson, I'm sorry."

"Don't be," Another sip. "We're both happier without one another." Wilson grinned at her. "Weird, right?"

"Why did you-," Cameron stopped herself mid question, blushing in shame as Wilson raised his brows at her. "I'm sorry. That was an inappropriate question. I have no right to ask."

"You were going to ask why we got married in the first place, right?"

Cameron nodded.

"Because we tricked ourselves into believing we loved each other. Both of us were tired of being alone and thought we were running out of time and options to find someone to latch onto. Especially Julie." A gulp. "She was so lonely, and so desperate, that she would have probably married anyone, so long as they didn't keep her from her work."

He gave a mirthless laugh. "In all respects, it should have been a perfect arrangement. The Head Economic Advisor to one of the largest and fastest developing companies on Earth, and a doctor, both of us too busy to actually talk to or even know our significant other. I suppose we focused so much on our work that we forgot about the time outside of it. Before we got to our offices in the morning and after we got home at night, we actually had to live with each other."

A final sip and Wilson signaled for another. "It's a depressing conclusion to come to when you realize that you don't know anything about your wife, who you've been with for half a decade." He looked up at her. "But that's not the worst of it."

He rubbed the back of his neck as he thanked George for his latest glass. "Julie and I were doomed from the start, and we're both better off without one another. But the baby…"

He sighed heavily, shaking his head and sipping his scotch. "I've wanted to be a father ever since college. Do you know how wonderful that would be? To be a parent?

"There's the whole biological reason, of course. To know that you created another life, to have a part of you live on after you've gone. But it's more than that, something beyond genetics. To be responsible for another life. To watch a person grow, to develop. Physically, emotionally. Watch them as they learned, played and just… Lived. And to be a part of that growth. To watch over it, influence it, to help them reach their full potential. Can you imagine that? To have a person be your sole responsibility, for their life to be, in every sense, far more important than your own? To shelter and guide them, show them how to carry out a life with honor and purpose. But to never live it for them. To tutor and observe and guide… To teach them the way to live but not how…" He trailed off and let out another harsh laugh, taking another sip of his drink.

"I'm sorry, I'm not making any sense. Too much scotch." He eyed his glass and took another sip.

Yes he was. He was making perfect sense. The best sense. The sense that's guided by emotion, that's not always logical or coherent, but that always rings of pure truth.

"No," Allison said it quickly, perhaps too quickly. "No, don't apologize." She looked at his bleary eyes, his lopsided grin. The lock of hair that kept getting into his eyes. "I know what you mean."

He continued smiling, staring back at her, seemingly content, when the grin quickly morphed into a gruesome line.

"I think I've reached oblivion." With that he was out of the chair, racing to the back of the building, towards the bathrooms.

Cameron sighed, looking up at George across the bar, who was smirking in the direction Wilson had run off in. "I'm blaming you for this, you know."

George went back to cleaning glasses.

---

"I feel betrayed. By all of you." House flicked his yoyo out in front of him, still upset.

Wilson, his supposed friend, had deceived him. The 'Bros Before Hoes' contract had been broken, the sanctity of their friendship destroyed and, most importantly, Greg had been made a fool of. Masterfully manipulated, in fact. By a cancer patient, no less.

The ultimate humiliation.

He finally understood why it bothered people when he treated them in a similar manner. Maneuvering the placement and distribution of information so he could better use it to suit his own purposes. To have a person do the same to him made him feel vulnerable. Used. Some might say pissed off, even.

"House, it's not the end of the world." Foreman, the sole minion in the office, was flipping through a magazine.

"I just can't believe Chase didn't tell me. Or Wilson. I'm going to have a real heart to heart with him," House sighed sadly with another flick of his wrist, "I think our friendship has been seriously damaged because of this."

"I'm sure you'll find some way to manage."

Mange? Foreman, apparently, did not comprehend the situation fully. "I've missed nearly a month of harassing Cameron. Do you understand how hard I'll have to work to make up for all that time I could have been annoying her about this?"

Foreman sighed and threw the magazine on the table. "I hate to ruin your fun, but can we talk about the patient now?" Trying to change the topic of the conversation, likely in hopes that it would make Greg forget about tormenting Cameron.

One would have hoped that the neurologist knew his boss better by this point. Although, there was no harm in humoring him. It was always fun to lure his victims into a false sense of security.

House grumbled. "If we must. Although I was hoping he'd just fix himself if we kept ignoring him."

Foreman sent the doctor a disbelieving look.

"It's worked for me before," House looked around, "Where's the Brit anyway? I'm already missing Miss Warm and Fuzzy. Only having one from a set of three," he stared sadly at the younger doctor, "and the least amusing one at that, is just depressing."

"Remind me again why I work here?"

"Because you love me Eric." House whipped out his pager and sent a message to Chase. "You try to deny it, to hide it behind a mask of pure loathing and annoyance. But deep down, I know all you have for me are warm mushy feelings."

"If by 'warm mushy feelings' you mean the desire to strangle, then yes. You've figured me out at long last."

"That's awfully violent Eric. This is the sort of anger the develops after a life filled with crime and homeless people."

"You know I've been doing your dirty work all day, right?" It was amusing to see Foreman get frustrated. He started to wobble from side-to-side a bit, like a penguin. "I haven't even gotten a meal today because I've been running around looking for a needle in a haystack. Not the job of a doctor, I might add."

House ignored him. Oh, he knew that Foreman was upset, that the doctor was on the verge of leaving Greg's department, but House didn't care much. He was trying, and hopefully was managing, to make a point. Greg believed that Foreman had two very serious problems that would prevent him from becoming a truly great doctor.

One was pride. Oh sure, House was arrogant and callous, but when he was wrong (and he was, on occasion), he acknowledged this and moved on, looking for a new solution. Foreman, however, wasn't quite as prone to adaptation. When he was wrong, he continued to beat at the same dead horse, hoping that if he whacked it hard enough it would jump up and gallop off into the sunset.

The other was... Well, pride. Because he had worked hard and gone to medical school, Foreman felt he was above the nitty-gritty back work that came with the job of diagnostics. To a doctor whose first concern was his patients, not the simple advancement of his career, doing unpleasant work, making mistakes and getting little respect for his actions would not have been issues. And, to the best doctors, patients were always the first priority.

This is not to say that the doctor had to particularly care for their patients. House certainly didn't. The lack of sympathy, however, did not stop him from doing what he had to in order to diagnose, and hopefully cure, the sick people who flocked his way. It didn't matter if he had screwed up along the way, if he had to do work that was beneath him. Even Greg himself went out to a patient's home from time to time, looking for clues and evidence that he might have missed. He was doing his job, no more, no less.

Foreman's pride, on the other hand, prevented him from doing the things necessary to get his patients out of his hair as quickly as possible.

And so, House decided to acquaint the man with dealing with that which he did not like in order to do his job properly. So, in order to punish (and educate, of course) his minion for such foul behavior, House irritated him on a consistent basis.

"Trust me, I've talked to my therapist about it. You should really seek help, learn to let go of your sordid past."

Foreman glared. "I'm going to start talking about the patient now, and my hope is that you'll follow my lead." He paused, looking at House as the older doctor continued to play with his yoyo.

"We didn't find much at the house. Just some mold in one of the guest bathrooms, which was completely harmless," Foreman was staring thoughtfully at the whiteboard. "Other than that, it's clear. No toxins, no unidentifiable substances, no suspicious looking pill bottles." He sighed and rubbed his brow. "Maybe we should look at the office again, see if there's something we missed."

Chase entered the room without comment, sitting across from Foreman and looking at House expectantly, a ridiculous grin on his face.

"Stop smiling." Chase raised a brow and did so, looking a little put-out. "Happiness does not enter the diagnostics room. I find the lack of misery distracting. Besides," he eyed Chase suspiciously, taking his own chair at the head of the table, "that demented smile was making me nervous." House smirked at Chase's annoyed expression and turned back to Foreman. "No. Except for the new paint, the office is clear of anything obviously toxic."

"And you know this from all the times you've gone over for lunch, I assume?" Foreman was doing the eyebrow thing again.

"Well of course. Pratt's my new best bud, since I obviously can't count on you," he gestured to Chase, "or Wilson to give me to good gossip anymore. You're getting a boo-boo face for that Chase, don't think I've forgotten." Chase rolled his eyes and leaned back in his chair, resigned to his fate. "But, if we function off of the assumption that I'm _not_ having tea and crumpets with computer-boy, we could pretend that I looked up his company on the net."

Greg grinned, "Not as much fun, I know. But it does have the benefit of being true." House placed his yoyo down on the table and carefully crossed his legs under the table. "He sees his clients in those offices. He wouldn't risk having an attack in front of potential buyers. The exploding into hives thing generally isn't a good sales pitch."

"Maybe it's not an allergy." Chase had found a pen and stuck it in his mouth, chewing on the cap.

Foreman shot him a disbelieving look.

Greg leaned back in his chair, ready for the show.

"Well then what else could it be?"

"No idea. But we're getting nowhere with this."

"It has to be an allergy. All the symptoms point to it." Foreman was raising his voice, irritated.

"House just said that it couldn't be triggered by something in the office," Chase took the pen out of his mouth and began to talk slowly, like speaking to a child. "No trigger equals no allergic reaction, equals not allergy related."

"Wrong."

Both men looked up to House, sending him puzzled glances.

"Oh, not that pretty equation bit," he nodded to Chase, "you get a gold star for that. It's the premise in general that I have a problem with."

"But you said-"

He interrupted the Aussie. "I didn't say that the attack couldn't be triggered by something in the office. I said that the office didn't have anything toxic in it except for the paint. That doesn't mean there wasn't something there that he's allergic to. The only problem with this logic being that he wouldn't want anything that could trigger an episode in the office.

"Soo," House folded his hands in his lap, "it would have to be something that was a relatively new feature to the building."

He clapped his hands and rubbed them together, looking at his team expectantly. "What looked shiny and unused when you guys visited? I know you noticed Foreman. Had to tell your hommies what they needed to smuggle out in the night."

Foreman glared.

"The paint job." Chase chimed.

"Already tried that. What else?"

"There's no way we could've known about anything else." Foreman growled, still glaring.

"You can't tell if something's new just by looking at it," Chase added, playing with the pen in his hand. "And we were only there for ten minutes before we started searching in the garage."

"Then we'll have this guy in here until he's old and balding." House stared at the men, knowing there was something they were all missing, waiting for one of the doctors to bring it to his attention. They had the answer. He just had to wait for it.

There was a long moment of silence, during which the two looked at one another hopelessly, each silently begging the other the bail them out of this.

Perhaps Greg shouldn't put so much faith into his employees. They didn't appear to be as competent as he had originally thought.

House sighed, thumping his forehead on the head of his cane. "Cuddy's going to be upset when she finds out we have to build a cottage in the hospital for the Pratts to live out their days in."

A moment of silence and then House heard a crinkle from above him.

He looked up as Chase popped a small red something into his mouth, sucking on it loudly.

By this point even Foreman was staring.

The intensivist looked up when he noticed all the attention on the room was focused on him. "What? You pulled me away from my dinner. I'm hungry."

"You are eating candy, loudly I might add, when we're in the middle of diagnosing a patient?" House had an eyebrow raised.

"Yep."

"I have taught you well. Gimme one."

Chase grinned, pulling another out of his pocket and tossing it over to his boss.

Foreman continued to glare.

House unwrapped the sweet and tossed it in his mouth. "Huh, good." He looked down at the colorful wrapper, seeing intricate designs but no information as to what they were. "What's in them?"

"No idea," Chase was getting another candy out of his pocket. "Want another?"

House nodded, examining the outside wrapping of the candy once he had caught it. "Where did you get them from?"

Foreman narrowed his eyes at his boss. "Pratt's house. There were tons of them in the kitchen." He didn't remove his gaze from the older doctor. "What is it?"

House bit down on the hard bit, grinning in satisfaction when he tasted the full range of flavors from the sweet more clearly.

"Gentlemen," he said, putting the unopened candy on the table in triumph, "we have found our culprit."

---

**Author's Note: **Congrats to **March Hare**! Didn't fool you (or likely anyone else, for that matter) for a second, did I? –grin-


	7. So I Can Sew It, pt one

**Drenched**

**Summary: **House enjoys the company of a patient- obviously signaling the apocalypse, Wilson is getting a divorce, Chase is falling head over heels, Foreman's thinking of leaving the team and Cameron's sister has cancer. At least it's not raining. Yet.

**Disclaimer:** If House were mine the boys would be shirtless far more often. (Yeah, I'm not the only one who's bummed because I don't own it now, am I?) –grin- House belongs to David Shore and Fox. "It Doesn't Get Much Better Than This" is Nicole Burdette's.

**Author's Note: **-dodges flying tomatoes- I'm sorry! –dodges more- I know! I'm a horrible horrible fanfic writer! Shame! Just don't hurt me. –cowers- I have a good excuse!

-looks at list of excuses, crossing off options such as 'my dog ate my zip-drive' and 'indigestion'-

College! Yes, college! I had to pick one! Be kind, oh gracious readers.

There was also the fact that this was an extremely difficult section for me to write. All of last week I was working on the opening segment, deleting thousands of words at a time because it just didn't seem to work. Then I put it in Wilson's POV, split it in two sections, gave the other part to Cameron and viola. It seemed better. –sigh-

I have a beta! -hears rejoicing- Unfortunately, she hasn't looked over this yet. -hears disappointed sighs- Soon however, **snowrabbitses** (from LJ) will be going over all earlier chapters and current ones. I was just anxious to get this posted. In any case, a big thanks to her for taking this disaster of mine on!

**Angelfirenze **sent me this, very helpful, information last week: _I just noticed something. You described in detail during the first chapter about House's dependency on Vicodin and the effect the addiction was having on most of his body, but you never mentioned his liver. He always took the pills, you said. I was reading up on hydrocodone at Wikipedia and it explained that the 5mg of acetaminophen in Vicodin is why addicts will usually use something straight like Oxycontin or dilute the Vicodin first with water to get rid of the acetaminophen. Excess levels of acetaminophen in the blood causes extreme toxicity to the liver. House would have needed a new liver for certain after (or before) the second detox with the amount he was taking. Unless he diluted the pills, which we know he does not._

This just further proves that the medicine in this fic is bad! Normally, I would adjust the story accordingly, but I think it's a bit too far in for that now. Nonetheless, here is some accurate medicine should anyone decide to go on a Vicodin-popping spree. For now, please content yourself with the delusion that House has a liver of steel! –insert trumpets-

This shall be another two-parter. I'll try (and likely fail) to have the second section up in a week.

This story is canon-compatible up to "Skin Deep."

Reviews/Reviewers are loved.

Thank you and enjoy!

**EDIT-** Didn't you know? The rain in this story is toxic! Hence, ammonia instead of pneumonia. –shifty eyes-

I can't believe I did that. –sigh- Yes, I am a moron, but I'm also charming in my idiocy, making it all okay… Right? –wink-

Fixed it! (And a few other things I caught.) Sorry!

---

**Chapter Six: So I Can Sew It, Part One**

_I want…  
I want so much I'm breathless  
I want to put my power into a poem  
To burn a hole in your pocket  
So I can sew it.  
-Nicole Burdette_

---

Wilson thought about how he could best describe what had transpired in the bathroom of his favorite, if rarely frequented, bar. 'Unpleasant' was much too kind, but 'pure hell' might be stretching it a bit.

"Hellishly unpleasant."

"What was that?"

Oops.

Jimmy was in Cameron's car, again, after having flushed his lunch down the bar's toilet. Unfortunate, since he had quite enjoyed the meal going down. Wasn't nearly as agreeable coming back up.

The two had left shortly after James had emerged from the bathroom, feeling a little green around the edges and more than ready to go home. He had paid George and insisted that he would take a cab home, a reassurance that Cameron ignored, hushing his protests as she guided him into her car.

Under normal circumstances, Wilson would have fought with a bit more persistence and vigor. But as it was, he lacked the energy and conviction to put any real heart into his objections, allowing Cameron to push his head down gently with only minimal fuss as he flopped himself into the vehicle. Her hand, no doubt, preventing him from accidentally knocking his head against something, destroying the few brain cells that remained after a night of being drowned in liquor.

He wanted to go home and sleep-off the effects of alcohol. To, after weeks without rest, allow his exhaustion to overtake him, transporting him, however briefly, to a place where he could forget. A luxury that he, perhaps, did not deserve, but felt that he desperately needed.

"Nothing, sorry," he yawned and fumbled with his seat-belt, struggling with the suddenly complex device, "Drunkenly mumbling to myself. Best left ignored."

She was grinning at him from the next seat. "If you insist." She seemed to be examining his face, searching for something. "You know, you are the most sober drunk man I have ever come in contact with."

James grinned without humor. "I'm drunk, have no doubts. Just bang some pots together tomorrow morning and see me flinch. Sell tickets, even. People are bound to be amused by it. Greg'll want a front row seat."

At last he was buckled in and gave and internal cheer of triumph, looking up at Cameron with a satisfied smile on his face.

She shook her head, still grinning. "Where do you live?"

Jimmy rattled off a slurry intersection and address to Cameron, watching her as she drove. She was relaxed, scrutinizing the road with a casual intensity that bespoke of her natural weariness, the slight caution that was apparent in her every action. Now, seeing her attention focused on the road, Jimmy imagined that she was noticing every detail, taking in the slightest of alterations to the landscape. He could almost see the list of observations in her head, the small, obscure, pieces of data that another person would have missed or found unimportant.

Cameron was like that; just as meticulous as House, but in an entirely different fashion. Whereas Greg found a hidden symptom, an unexplored motive, Cameron found an undiscovered emotion. A suppressed feeling, an unspoken promise.

House exposed the things people were ashamed of. The wife that cheated on her husband. The pregnant child. The attempted suicide. In contrast, Cameron brought to light the things they were proud of. The undeniable caring of a couple for one another. The parents and their fierce love for their newborn. The good heart in a woman dying of cancer.

Perspective.

House typically assumed the worst of those around him and was rarely disappointed. Generally, Cameron saw the best and suffered the consequences when she was let down. Greg remained emotionally safe in his cynicism, expecting every atrocity that came his way, unsurprised by the depths to which humankind could sink. Allison took each additional sin, every wrong committed, as a personal affront, every new encounter with the baser aspects of humanity chipping away at her belief in the goodness of people.

And yet, she never abounded the belief. Didn't toss it aside and pass it off as foolish, childish, naivety. It would have been an easy thing to do, to succumb to the evidence submitted to her, give in to the inevitable. But she didn't. Despite all she had been through, all she had seen and all she had taken part in, the persistence of the belief remained. To Allison Cameron, people were inherently good, a thought that guided her moral compass and life.

It was what made her seek the best in her fellows, to cherish such things when she had discovered them, holding them close to her heart as small gems that proved her faith in humanity was justified. It was why she was so kind, hoping to coax the goodness out of others. Why she cared so deeply for her patients, seeing them as decent, deserving people in addition to the sick she was paid to cure.

It was why she loved Greg House.

She had found a seed of good in the gruff doctor because she had gone looking for it, because that was the sort of thing that Allison Cameron did. Once she had discovered this seed, something that Greg went to great lengths to hide, she had fallen for him, quickly and hard. It had been an obvious thing for Wilson to spot, attuned as he was to those around him. The looks she had sent Greg would have been enough to tip him off, the small shivers that ran through her spine whenever he saw them together, the adoration she had for her boss. These reactions combined with the forced dinner convinced Jimmy that the evidence spoke for itself.

And just as Cameron's nature drove her to seek House out, to reveal the goodness in him and help it grow, so too did House's instincts demand that he reject her at every turn. So convinced that any person who partook in a selfless action (and an attraction to House was about as selfless and unrewarding as they come) had ulterior motives, Greg searched for them. Poked and prodded, examined and annoyed until he had discovered the answers that he wanted. And these, whatever they were, had been enough to send Allison away. To cease her active purist of the man, if not her want.

Or at least, this was what Jimmy assumed. Despite his pestering, House never had revealed what had taken place on the night of his date with Cameron, and Wilson had never been in a position to ask Allison for the details of the evening.

Although, this was a wonderful opportunity to do so.

Wilson quickly pulled himself away from his thoughts, doing everything to prevent himself from speaking save for slapping his hands over his mouth and sewing his lips shut.

No, he was not going to ask Cameron what had happened on a date that had taken place more than a year before, an event that had likely caused her some distress. He was not going to force her to bring the incident to the forefront of her mind when she was doing him a favor, and was not going to remind her of the fruitless love she had for House during a time when she was already struggling with her own family difficulties. Was _not_.

He waited for a moment, clenching his jaw in case his tongue ignored his explicit command.

Satisfied that his body was obeying his orders, he relaxed slightly. He was far too reflective when drunk, more prone to wallowing, to saying what was on his mind without thought of the consequences. Half of the reason he had been so verbose when Cameron had entered the bar was because the alcohol freed him from his hesitation, his common sense. His ability to keep his mouth shut.

When James was miserable he would wait until he was able to place himself in some remote corner, where he was certain he wouldn't bother anyone, and mope for a time. Once through, he would reintroduce himself to society, satisfied with his stint of self-pity and ready to pretend again. Unfortunately, Cameron had interrupted him while he was in the midst of his moping period, and he was quickly discovering that it was much more difficult to pretend to be alright with a gallon or two of scotch flowing through his veins.

Sighing slightly, James yawned again, fixing his stare, once more, on Cameron as the glow from the streetlights highlighted her skin in reds, yellows and greens.

He fell asleep staring at the collage of colors.

---

Cuddy was surrounded by an immense amount of paperwork, sheets and files piled on top of every available surface in her office. She was mildly appalled by the state her workroom had been reduced to, the space normally orderly and neat, nearly absurd in its cleanliness. Cuddy liked order, control, to maintain an air of professionalism at all times. (All of them things, coincidently, that contributed to her constant irritation with House.) The disorganized and chaotic condition of the room spoke volumes about her current mood in a way that no glare or hateful assignment of clinic duty could quite convey.

Lisa was attempting to relax, her high healed shoes forgotten on the floor, her legs crossed languidly in front of her, resting on the hard oak of her desk. She was slouched down in her chair, feet tilted upward slightly, head leaned back and eyes closed. She took a deep breath and tried to clear her mind, to let the troubles of the past week exit as she exhaled, out of her and into the universe, the problems becoming the issues of some other poor fool who came across them.

Her efforts weren't really accomplishing much other than making her feel slightly ridiculous for even attempting them. The headache was still there, making her feel each rush of blood as her heart pumped, causing her entire skull ache in a constant beat. The dread also hadn't departed, the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, a sense of impending doom overreaching her every thought and motion.

This was the third, failed, attempt at calming herself. The first had been clinic duty (during which she had dully noted that House was not present), which had actually made her state of irritation and mild panic worse. If a woman ran for six hours, it wasn't exactly rocket science to deduce why her legs were bothering her. A cold was not an early sign of some violent pneumonia and an ear infection did not lead to deafness.

Cuddy had survived four patients and then gone back into her office, waving to Wilson as he picked up another file at the nurse's station. She was a little more sympathetic towards House's constant whining now; the people who came into the clinic really could be idiots. Not that she would ever admit this is him. That would just be asking for a solid year of his particular rendition of the, "Nah nah! I told you so," chant.

The chaos around her had been the second, ineffective, attempt to take her mind off of the situation. Nothing was more mind-numbing than paperwork, and Lisa had her fair share of it to catch up on. Her frantic writing had been working well, until she found a large stack of bills that had yet to be paid, the total sum of the lot being a number far too high for Cuddy's comfort. At least now, with over a dozen of her investors threatening to back out of their obligations if PPTH's bad press continued to persist.

She had then given up on practical work and opted for this third option. Although now considerably more comfortable than earlier, her overall demeanor remained the same.

Cuddy hated being helpless. It was horrible, needing to sit back and watch as other people decided her fate, when forces beyond her control determined her destiny. What made this situation all the more unpleasant was the fact that the fate being decided was not simply her own, but also that of her hospital.

Lisa had given up everything to keep Princeton-Plainsboro running, devoting her time, effort and passion to the hospital's hollowed halls. PPTH was what she had learned to live for. She woke up every morning to go to work. She ate so that she would be able to perform to the best of her abilities while on duty. She went to sleep each night so that she would be able to function at the hospital the next morning. There was only a small number of things left in her existence that were entirely her own. An occasional golf or tennis game, articles of clothing to remind her superiors that she wasn't some genderless goon at their service. Everything else, relationships between friends or lovers, vacations, family, had faded in the background, secondary to the job she loved.

Her life revolved around this hospital, its trials and tribulations, its ups and downs. It was a living entity to her, a child that she needed to care for, a responsibility that she would never shirk. She was not going to let bad press kill the thing she had given up her life to protect.

She was jerked out of her thoughts as the door to her office was thrown open, House limping in and beginning to speak instantly.

"Cuddy, I-"

He stopped mid-sentence and stared at her legs, her skirt having been pushed back to her knees with her legs at the slightly elevated height.

He blinked repeatedly, looking from Lisa's legs to her face, then back to her legs.

Sensing a developing pattern, Cuddy rolled her eyes and brought her feet down from their perch, smoothing her skirt to its usual state. She stared at House intently, in hopes that this would encourage him to get to his point. Quickly.

He blinked a few more times. "Wow, Cuddy. The ladies are nice, but if you flash those legs every now and then," he whistled, "Let's just say that investors would plentiful."

"Why are you here House?" She eyed the clock on her desk. It was past eight and Cuddy was mildly surprised that the man was still on the hospital's grounds. Usually House couldn't be paid money to stay after hours unless there was a dire situation in his department. Pratt certainly wasn't dying, and there were no other patients that he and his team were working on. And yet, House was here anyway, supposedly on hospital business.

"I forgot."

Or not.

He eyed her toes under her desk. "Is that pink nail polish?"

Lisa sighed, slipping her feet back into her constricting shoes. "Have I covered enough flesh so that the blood flow can return to your brain functions now?"

He looked up, "Hey, you're the one exposing skin here," he smirked, "Want to tell me something Cuddy? Feeling lonely? Hoping secretary boy would pop his head in, see you in such a state of undress and decide to ravish you?"

Cuddy blinked at him. "If you consider a glimpse of calf to be 'a state of undress' then maybe you should be the one calling him. You certainly need his companionship more than I do."

"Ha! So he is a secretary!" Cuddy gave him an irritated glare, "Thanks, but I'm good. What do you think I have Chase for?" House sighed wistfully and Lisa grinned, despite her best efforts to halt the upward tilt of her lips. "It's the hair, I think. All mop-like and blond and long-"

"House," best to rein him in before he become too enthusiastic about Chase's hair, "what do you want?"

"You mean besides sexual favors from Chase?"

"That would be preferable, yes."

"World peace, obviously." He paused and looked at her hopefully, "That is the correct answer, right? Can I get my crown now?"

Cuddy pinched the bridge of her nose. "Why are you in my office House?"

House sighed sadly. "Party pooper," he started to hobble back to the entrance to her office, "I know what's wrong with Pratt and why the episodes occurred." He jerked his head towards her, "Make sure the girls are strapped in, that your skirt's not up around your waist and let's go. We wouldn't want anyone to think that we were," he looked around, making sure the cost was clear, and then lowered his voice, "up to something." He wiggled his eyebrows and Cuddy only just restrained herself from throwing something at him.

"What caused the attacks then?" Lisa stood up from her chair and caught up to House, the two exiting her office at the same pace, Lisa slowing to accommodate House's hobble.

"Cuddy!" House gave her a mock-severe look, using his cane to press the 'up' button on the elevator. "That would ruin the surprise."

"Then why did you come get me?"

House stared at her blankly.

"You never do anything if you can make your lackeys do it instead," the elevator opened and they stepped in, House nodding at her assessment of his tendencies. "And if you wanted to gloat you would have told me the origins of the episodes." Again, House nodded. "So? What is it? Wanted exercise?"

"I sent the minions home."

Cuddy sent him a shocked expression.

"They just looked so tired you see, not to mention that I missed you." He gazed at her intently and Cuddy rolled her eyes again. "We just don't get time to bond anymore, Lisa. And that hurts me, deeply. I find myself weeping at night, sobbing because I just don't know what happened to our friendship."

Cuddy blinked at him.

"Fine," he sighed. "No one appreciates white lies anymore. Someone," he sent her an annoyed glance, "let Cameron leave early and Chase and Foreman went home ten minutes ago. And I was looking for Wilson. He wasn't in his office or the Oncology lounge so I thought he might be with you."

"No, I only saw him once today. At the clinic." She glared, infusing all of her frustration into the mean-spirited stare.

"Hm," House ignored her. "Do you know where he is now?"

"He went home a half-an-hour ago," she said quickly, having every intention on harassing her employee about his failure to do his job, again. But before she could properly berate him, she saw his expression suddenly become serious. "What is it?"

He sighed. "I'll miss him. Jimmy and I, we just don't get time to bond anymore. And it hurts me deeply-"

Cuddy blocked out his droning until they reached Pratt's room, whereupon House abruptly, and without warning, slid open the glass door, smiling rather evilly when Pratt and his wife both jerked awake at the sudden sound.

Lisa scowled at House and smiled towards the Pratts. "Hello Mr. and Mrs. Pratt. I'm sorry we're bothering you so late at night, but we have good news that we wanted to tell you as soon as possible."

Pratt sat up groggily from his spot on the bed. "It's no problem Doctor Cuddy," he looked down and squeezed his wife's hand, which had been resting in his own even as they were sleeping. "We probably want to hear it quickly too, if it's so good."

He glanced up and narrowed his eyes at House. "Who are you?"

Cuddy felt like banging her head against a wall.

House didn't need to meet patients, even if they had the potential to make or break the hospital's reputation.

"He's Doctor House, John," Pratt's wife said quietly from her chair, staring nervously up at the tall doctor. "The man in charge of your case."

House waved. "Yeah, hi. Funny running into you again," he raised an eyebrow at the woman, "And to think that this time I can actually give you some helpful information, none of which was brought about thanks to your visit to my office." He moved to the other side of Pratt's bed, sitting in a chair and tapping his cane against the floor in an irregular rhythm. "Just think of what could have been avoided if you had a little patience." He sighed and shook his head sadly at her, mockery apparent in every gesture. "Jimmy says hello, by the way."

The woman paled and looked down at her hand entwined with her husband's, both Pratt and Cuddy staring at her, at a loss. Did she know Wilson somehow? A former patient, a friend of Julie's?

Before they could ask any questions however, House had started again, "Anyway," he stopped the incessant tapping, "to matters at hand." He fixed his eyes on Pratt, giving him a piercing glance. "Mr. Pratt, you are an utter idiot."

There was a shocked silence for a moment, during which Cuddy contemplated the various ways in which she could commit murder. Death by drowning was far too good for the man, but perhaps she could douse him in gasoline and set him on fire. That seemed like a painful enough way to die, one that House certainly deserved. Where to get the gas though...?

"Umm..." Pratt looked down to his wife and then up at Cuddy, finally turning his attention back to House at the Head of Medicine's defeated shrug. "Alright? How does this help with my diagnosis?"

"It doesn't. But it is the cause for our lovely get-together." House dug in his pocket and pulled out a small ornately wrapped piece of candy. "Do you recognize this?"

Pratt nodded, "Yes."

"Where did you get it?"

"We got a batch of them from a motorcycle company in China that we're making a deal with."

"Do you know what is used to make these candies?" House had his eyes clenched shut, holding the sweet in front of him and waving it a bit, already knowing the answer.

Pratt sighed and rubbed his face with his hand. "No."

House opened eyes and gave an exaggerated nod. "No!" He stood up and walked up to Pratt's bed, "And is it a _smart _thing for a person with an extreme peanut allergy to eat something that they do not know the ingredients of?"

Pratt opened his mouth, but House interrupted him. "No, it is not. Next time you want to experiment with foreign foods without labels, don't. Or at least keep a supply of epinephrine with you, like the normal folk with peanut allergies do." House went back to his seat, "Funny things, allergies. They don't decide to leave the people with the big checking accounts alone. A real shame, because I'm sure you would be one to offer some hefty bribes." He waved the sweet again, "No more of these, understood?"

Not waiting for a response, House stood back up and smirked smugly, heading for the door.

Cuddy was glaring daggers at him, arms crossed over her chest, and would have gladly caused the doctor serious harm if she had anything more deadly on her person than a stiletto heel.

"That can't be right,"

Everyone in the room turned towards Mrs. Pratt, still holding onto her husband's hand.

"You caught me!" House said, stopping in his tracks and turning around. "It was a lie. Wanted to catch the reactions on tape. We have it recorded, you know. It'll give the security guys a real laugh when they see it in the morning."

The woman ignored him. "The second attack... he didn't have any of the candy when it happened."

House narrowed his eyes. "What?"

"She said he didn't have any candy the second time House," Cuddy spat out, feeling her head give an ominous pound. "You're wrong." _And have just insulted one of the most powerful men in the country, _a silent addition which tact forced her to leave out.

He ignored his boss. "But you did have a piece the first time?" House asked, turning towards Pratt.

The man nodded, apparently still too shocked at his own foolishness to convert the reply into verbal form.

"Which means you were right about the first attack," Mrs. Pratt said, staring intently at House, "But not the second."

Cuddy shook her head grimly. "That was caused by something else."

House looked to Cuddy, shrugging. "One out of two ain't that bad, is it?"

It took all of Lisa's will-power not to reach for her stiletto.

---

Wilson was unconscious in the next seat.

Well, perhaps 'unconscious' was a bit strong of a term, but he was definitely asleep. Quite an impressive feat, considering the odd angle his neck was in and the manner in which he had slumped his frame, giving him a look similar to that of an accordion.

Allison hated to wake him. If a man was capable in sleeping in such a position he had obviously been lacking in rest for some time. She couldn't imagine someone voluntarily bending their spine that way for any other reason.

Granted, it wasn't a great leap of logic to assume that the oncologist hadn't been sleeping properly, not after what she had just learned.

Alcohol is said to free one from their inhibitions, to set lose the restrained and allow a person to abandon their reservations. All fears, insecurities and hesitations set aside for a few hours, life reduced to an alcoholic haze that soothed the senses, loosened the tongue and broke reservations.

And yet, it hadn't been enough for the doctor next to her to drop his defenses. Only now, while he was sleeping, did Allison have a true notion of Wilson's state. It was easier to see the exhaustion now in this unguarded moment, the dark bags under his eyes, the deep groves in his face, the unhealthy pallor of the skin. It was as if the veil had been lifted and Cameron was left with the truth; Wilson was struggling, a fact that no one, save for House, perhaps, had noticed.

It was a depressing thought; that a man so well-liked by all could suffer for a month with only minimal notice being taken.

Shaking herself from her thoughts, Cameron looked on either side of the street she was parked on. They were in front of a series of apartments, one of which Cameron sincerely hoped belonged to Wilson. She had managed to get an intersection and address out of him before he nodded off to sleep. Before the scotches allowed him this one respite from his act, this small flagging of the armaments. Cameron felt cruel, pulling him away from it.

But, allowing him to stay in that position for longer than twenty minutes would be a form of cruelty all it's own.

Hesitantly, she shook the doctor's shoulder. "Wilson?"

He groaned, turning slightly and shaking off her hand.

She smiled and brought her appendage to his back, "Jimmy? "

Another groan as he slowly sat up, opening his eyes, "Whatsit?"

Cameron smiled more broadly, removing her hand. "We're at you're house," she paused and looked intently at him as he glanced out of the windows, "Or at least I hope we are."

He squinted a bit at the apartment to their left and nodded wearily. "That would be mine." He fumbled with his seat-belt a bit, almost tripping out of the car once he had detached the high-tech device, and poked his head back in the vehicle once he had righted himself. "Thank you for the ride," he grinned, "Both of them. I'm sorry I wasn't the best of company."

"You were most charming," Cameron reassured the man, smirking at his sheepish smile. "And you're very welcome." She looked him up and down again, noting his slumped posture, every feature seeming to droop out of sheer exhaustion. Even his hair had lost its flop. "Now get inside before the rain gives you an pneumonia or you collapse. I'll see you morning, alright?"

He gave another tired nod. "Yes ma'am." He sent her a small grin as he closed the door, swaying slightly as he made his way across the street and up the steps to his home. She nearly snorted when he dropped his keys after digging them out of his pocket, trying several times to get the metal device into the small keyhole before at last succeeding. With a shake of his head he gave her another wave before staggering inside of the building, the door slamming closed behind him.

Cameron's eyes remained focused on the entrance for several moments, the man behind it the subject of her thoughts. James Wilson, she was quickly learning, was a man of great complexities, and she found that she could no longer define him based solely on his roles of House's friend and as a competent doctor. Perhaps because she had never felt the need to look at the oncologist in any other set of lenses, she had simply dismissed the notion of him having a life outside of the hospital or beyond House's influence. In her mind he had only ever played those two parts, and so she had treated him accordingly based on these roles. All but a handful of her conversations with Wilson had focused around medicine or her boss, Cameron gladly exploiting his knowledge in both areas without thought to the man himself.

Only rarely had she contemplated him in the light of an actual person, with problems and burdens of his own. Yes, she had known that he had committed at least one infidelity, but she had never considered any negative effects the event might have had on him. How the guilt ate at him, how his first wife seemed to haunt him, his own shame preventing him from reaching amends with her.

Yes, he had lived with what he had done. But he had never mentioned how, and Allison never asked.

She had dismissed Wilson as nothing more than a kind and skilled doctor with a great amount of tolerance. Written him off as a sourcebook of information for her to exploit, conveniently forgetting that beneath his pleasant smile and joking manner there was a man every bit as human as herself. And the fact that she had overlooked this, purposefully ignored any hints of unhappiness on his part, made her feel deeply ashamed. She chose to believe that Wilson was happy and content, a simple man who had made mistakes and moved on from them, because it was easy, not because such assessments were accurate. Or fair.

She was determined to never allow herself this luxury again. That of pretending that Wilson was more than human, above the heartbreaking trials of everyday existence, possessing neither emotional strife nor significance outside of the box she had carefully crafted for him. She knew better now.

With a sigh, Cameron pulled herself out of her regretful thoughts, coming back to the present and her intense desire to sleep. Five hours was enough to function off of, but not comfortably. She turned the key in the ignition, putting the car in gear, preparing to head home and looking forward to the prospect of uninterrupted rest.

Only to catch the sight of worn brown leather to her right. Frowning, she put the car back into park and reached for the skin, marveling at the texture of the case once it was in her hands.

She smiled. On the inside flap were the indented letters, "J.E.W."

Jew.

She laughed and turned off the car, grabbing Wilson's briefcase and locking her door before crossing the street, heading for the oncologist's home.

One would have hoped his parents had been at least a little more subtle upon naming their child, taking into consideration the mockery that was bound to follow the poor boy throughout his adolescent life. No wonder he was able to deal with House's insults and sarcasm; he most likely had an entire childhood of conditioning.

She was still smiling when she reached the door to the building, briefcase over her head as a make-shift umbrella as she knocked. She shifted her feet a bit while she waited, feeling the rain slowly soak through her thick sweater.

Narrowing her eyes when there was no response, she banged on the wood again, becoming worried. She wouldn't have been surprised if Wilson had somehow hurt himself, perhaps tripped over something and banged his head.

Shivering, she pounded once more on the hard wood. "Wilson!"

Nothing.

Concern escalating, Allison reached for the doorknob, taken aback when the device easily turned at her touch, allowing her access to the apartment. Wilson must have forgotten to lock it once he came in.

Peeking her head into the home, she looked from left to right, seeing nothing but the faint outlines of furniture and accessories. Cautiously, she entered.

All of the lights were off, but she could find her way around the place easily enough, making out the shapes of a kitchen counters, couches, and even a large armchair (a trench coat was carelessly thrown on one of its arms) from the dim natural light. And yet, anything that hinted at the person who resided in the building seemed to be mysteriously absent. No photographs, personal trophies or any indication of the habits or life of individual who lived inside of these walls. It had the feel of a home that was slept-in, but not lived in. Containing all of the necessities of life but none of its pleasures. The absence of personality had an eerie effect on the space, causing it to seem cold, barren.

Not to mention that it actually was cold. Nearly freezing, in fact. Either Wilson didn't know how to work a thermostat, he wanted to pretend his house was an igloo, or he wasn't at home enough to notice the frigid temperature of the place.

Cameron brushed her thoughts aside, renewing her search for the oncologist.

Softly, she called, "Wilson?"

"Hm?"

Allison practically jumped out of her skin, looking around frantically for the source of the sleepy voice.

Tentatively making her way towards the direction she thought the sound was originating from, she continued. "Wilson, you left your briefcase in the car and your door's unlocked."

"Oh, sorry." Ah ha. The couch. Now that she was looking in the proper location, she could just barely make out the back of Wilson's head poking up above the piece of furniture. "Could you just leave the case by the door? I'll grab it later."

Cameron made her way around the sofa, briefcase still in hand. "Are you sure you're alright?"

"Yes," she looked down at his sprawled form, grinning, "the scotch is just catching up to me, is all."

"I can tell."

He opened his eyes and smirked at her smile. "Ah, obviously I'm more entertaining this way."

"I don't know. You have you're moments when sober as well."

"When I still manage to make a complete fool of myself, despite lack of alcohol, you mean?"

"Something like that."

"Glad to hear my blunders are compelling, at least. Here," he slowly sat up from his sprawl, bringing his feet to the floor, "I'll see you to the door." He stood, and then rapidly sat back down, one hand going to his temple while the other groped at the cushions to his side.

Cameron quickly set the briefcase down by one of the couch's legs, moving to the front of the sofa to sit on a coffee table placed across from it. "What is it?"

"Nothing," Wilson shook his head gently, "just a little dizzy." He looked up slowly and gave another smirk. "I did consume half of the scotch in New Jersey though. This sort of reaction isn't exactly unexpected."

Cameron grinned, leaning forward and resting a hand on his forehead, placing the other on his shoulder to make sure he didn't pull away. "You don't have a fever," Allison frowned and rubbed the fabric of his shirt in-between her fingers. "But your shirt is soaked. And it's freezing in here," Wilson blinked at her repeatedly as she stood up, glancing around the dark room. "Where's your thermostat? If we don't turn on the heat you'll be an icicle in an hour."

"Cameron, stop. I'm fine."

Allison ignored him, silently reassuring herself that the man was inebriated and that it was perfectly acceptable to make sure he didn't get himself sick.

She searched for a few moments, finally finding the device and fiddling until she felt the temperature slowly beginning to rise. Nodding in satisfaction, she returned to Wilson's couch, assuming her position on his coffee table once more.

Cameron stared at him, his elbows on his knees, hands entwined in front of him, eyes fixed on his fingers, head hunched down. Utterly defeated.

"You're not very good at taking care of yourself, are you?"

She wasn't sure what made her say it. Perhaps the weary set of his frame or the desperate look about him. A man so obviously drowning and yet completely incapable of swimming to save himself.

He brought his head up and blinked hazily at her. "I can take care of myself."

"Of course you can," she smiled at his mildly offended expression. "I'm not doubting your ability. Every time I see you with a patient I know that you're completely capable of caring for others. You're the ideal doctor," she gave a small, bitter, laugh, "and a much better friend than House deserves." She paused, looking at him intently. The slope of his back, the hair hanging in front of his face, the structure of his hands. "You look after others when they are unable or unwilling to look after themselves." He was still staring at his fingers, one thumb running over the other. "Like you did for House last year."

There was a slight tensing of his muscles, but no response.

Everyone knew what had happened during those three months, even though the truth had never been spoken. It wasn't a secret; a dirty deed to be kept under-wraps. It was simply made perfectly clear that it was no one's business.

When House had returned to work everyone was far too content with his new demeanor to bring thoughts of the old version of the doctor to their mind. Even Cuddy had remained silent on the subject, quickly forcing House back into clinic duty the day he came back without comment on his absence. Foreman relinquished his charge of the Diagnostics Department without argument or resentment. The diagnostics team, and the hospital as a whole, went on with work as usual, finding no need to give any attention to the matter.

Everyone was pleased. House looked healthier than anyone had seen him in years, was in a slightly less vindictive mood than what they had become accustomed to and didn't appear to be suffering any ill-effects from the months away. No one wished to bring this positive change to the doctor's attention for fear that he would revert back to his old ways simply out of spite. So, everyone kept silent on his small vacation and his improvements, no one wishing to reawaken the beast or lose what had been gained.

Then Wilson came back.

No one failed to notice how frail the doctor had become in such a short span of time. The way his belt buckle had moved up two loops and his lab coat hung off his frame. How sunken his eyes were in his face, the way it was possible to see his collar-bone through his shirt. Just as noticeable and nearly more frightening were the extra hours Wilson spent in his office, how he sent other doctors to speak with his patients, stopped going to the clinic. For a man who spent the majority of his time with others, who was known for his excellent and personalized patient care, this sudden seclusion was more telling of the price that the three months had cost him than any physical deterioration could have been.

Almost as disturbing was House's suddenly mothering manner towards his friend, causing half of the hospital to go searching for something stronger than Vicodin in his personal office. Not to imply that House had been any more pleasant to Wilson; that was asking a bit much of the diagnostician. But nonetheless, during the hours Wilson would lock himself away, House would hop over his balcony ledge and come in through the back door. He would bring the oncologist food when it didn't seem as if Wilson had eaten that day. He would force his friend out of his office and make him walk around the hospital with Greg, to 'help him think.'

Once Wilson returned the silence concerning the three months the two men had been away wasn't maintained due to a fear of House relapsing- it was plain that the doctor had no intention of returning to his Vicodin-popping habits. Instead, it was done out of respect. If Wilson didn't mention it, if House didn't bring it up in everyday conversation, then they certainly had no right to comment upon the events that had given one man back his life and extracted a painful toll from the other. It was private, almost sacred, and every attempt that had been made to inquire into what had occurred during their time away was met with scorn and icy dismissal by all. It was simply something that no one touched.

Until now.

Because it had never been acknowledged. Because Cameron had never thought that Wilson needed verification for the good things he had done. She assumed that he knew, was aware of how he had helped House, his patients. That he understood how profound his sacrifice had been. People thought that because he did such things with an unwavering regularity, with no expectations of praise or gratitude, the he did not need the recognition.

And perhaps, he didn't. But he certainly deserved it. For someone to, however subtly, thank him for what he had done. To give voice to his deeds, make them real.

So, Cameron had broken the unwritten code, stepped over the line. Left the collective comfort zone of the society that was Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. And had the feeling that there was no turning back.

So instead, she plowed on.

Cameron was, after all, a very practical person. No use regretting what can't be undone.

"You take care of others, but you don't do the same for yourself." Wilson didn't look up, continuing the close examination of his fingernails. "But somehow you find the time to keep up appearances. Fix your hair and straighten your tie, pretend nothing's wrong, trying to protect everyone around you from knowing how strained you are."

Allison leaned forward, willing him to look up, to see her so he could, maybe, grasp her sincerity.

He did, and she locked eyes with him. "It's alright if you stop pretending."

They held each other's gaze for a time, Allison content to stare at the deep brown. They were intense and yet unassuming. Kind, earnest, but also experienced. Empathy and wisdom combined to create a knowledge tempered with compassion, sympathy with clarity and purpose. It was a most interesting mix, one that she thought she could stare for hours without losing interest.

It was at this thought that Allison realized what she was doing and looked away quickly, leaving Wilson staring at her neck and Cameron mentally kicking herself.

What did she do after work today? Stalked James Wilson of course. Interrupted him while he was attempting to drown his sorrows, forced him into letting her drive him home, invited herself inside said home and then lectured him. All followed by a stare that was far too intimate for Allison's conscience to pass off as friendly concern.

She was an utter idiot.

But a determined utter idiot. She couldn't do much more damage by this point, might as well make sure Wilson didn't catch a cold.

With a sigh, she continued with her original campaign. "Come on. We have to get you out of these clothes."

Wilson looked up sharply and gave her an amused smirk, eyebrows raised. "Are you trying to take advantage of me in my vulnerable state, Doctor Cameron?"

"And into other ones!" Cameron glared, an effect that was likely lost due to the fierce blush she felt overtaking her features. "James Wilson, why I never," she stood up and paced a bit, hoping he didn't take the sudden movement for the escape from proximity she knew it was. "You need to get your head out of the gutter. What would your mother think?" She made an effort not to appear as flustered as she felt, an action doomed to failure. Her cheeks were still burning.

Wilson laughed and leaned back into the couch. "My mother has long since washed her hands of me and would not be surprised in the least."

"Poor woman. She has my greatest sympathy and utmost admiration for not causing you severe brain damage out of sheer frustration."

He let out another chuckle that abruptly stopped when she held out her hand in front of his nose.

He stared at her hand and then sent her a confused expression.

"You need help getting up or you won't stay up," Cameron jerked her hand.

Wilson tried to wave the hand away, "I'm fine here, really."

"No one can sleep properly on a couch."

He groaned. "Truer words never spoken."

"Then why are you resisting me?"

"Principle in general. I'll look like a sissy if you need to help me up."

"Look, you can either take the hand or I can drag you up by your tie," she eyed him questioningly, "which might make you spew again, causing you to leave a nasty stain on your carpet." She glanced down sadly at the floor and then returned her gaze to him again. "Either works for me."

Wilson looked up at her helplessly.

"Your choice. You can sacrifice your poor, defenseless, carpet because of your pride or you can give in and let me help you up."

"You're not going to take no for an answer, are you?"

"Nope. I'm very stubborn."

He sighed. "You're mean, you know," and he took her hand in his.

It was an odd hand. Large, strong, but also possessing an odd grace, fine bones creating fascinating dips in the skin, interesting contours in a seemingly insignificant locations. The skin was a mystery all its own, alternating between rough and soft, worn and smooth areas side by side. Signs of a man who has spent more time holding pens than digging ditches. She also felt the faint impression of calluses on the tips of his fingers, the coarse skin brushing against her own fingertips.

Her observations were brought to a jarring halt when the hand was snatched out of hers and quickly brought to her shoulder, its counterpart doing the same to her opposite. She staggered for a moment, bringing her hands to Wilson's waist as he wavered, slowly righting herself as he regained his own footing.

There was an awkward silence as they remained in the position, Cameron staring at the spot where Wilson's neck became shoulder, feeling the slight movement of her hair being stirred by his breath.

"Well," Wilson backed away a bit, hands still on her shoulders but removing the comforting heat he radiated, despite the damp clothes. "This is completely destroying any respect you have ever had for me as a man, isn't it?"

Cameron grinned and slung one of his arms over her shoulder, heading down a hallway and trying not to notice every point at which they were touching. "Wear a wife beater to work one day, then there will be no way I can question your manhood."

"I don't own a wife beater."

"Something we will have to remedy." They had reached the end of the hall and Allison gestured towards the last door. "That it?"

"Yep."

"Alright," she removed his arm and gave him a gentle push towards the room, "get changed into something dry and tell me when you're done. I want to take your temperature before I leave, just in case."

"Is this another one of those things where you're going to force me to do what you want, despite my wishes?"

"Yep."

"In that case," he gave a small salute, "Yes ma'am."

He disappeared behind the door and Cameron let out a breath of air, berating herself, feeling horrible.

This only proved that House was right.


	8. So I Can Sew It, pt two

**Drenched**

**Summary: **House enjoys the company of a patient- obviously signaling the apocalypse, Wilson is getting a divorce, Chase is falling head over heels, Foreman's thinking of leaving the team and Cameron's sister has cancer. At least it's not raining. Yet.

**Disclaimer: **I got into a drinking contest with David Shore. If I won, I got House. If he won, he got what was left of my self-respect and worth. –toes ground- I'm such a loser… House belongs to David Shore and Fox. Nicole Burdette owns "It Doesn't Get Much Better Than This." I'm just borrowing them both to try and make me feel a little bit better about my pathetic self…

**Author's Note: **-hands stones- More effective than tomatoes. One moment please… -goes into corner and assumes the fetal position- All right, have at it.

I've got an excue- er, _explanation _on my info page, but I shant bother you all with it here. Just know that I'm sorry! Please be gentle with the stoning… Having my skull intact by the end of it would be lovely if you can all manage it, but if not… I suppose I understand. –braces self-

-grin-

I have a new best friend. Her name is **LastScorpion**, and not only did she suffer through reading this whole fic with all my homonyms and misspellings, but then she offered to beta for me and get rid of such horrors. While she was at it, she also pointed out some of my _lovely_ grammatical errors and prevented me from making another medical boo-boo. For this, I give her my most sincere thanks and weekly worship sessions. (Thursdays, if you're interested. –wink-) So, if at the end of this chapter your eyes aren't bleeding, you have her to thank.

I have **snowrabbitses **slaving away in my cellar, working on past chapters. Hopefully she'll be able to help me out with all of my lovely plot and characterization issues. (Her worship sessions will be held Wednesdays.)

So, umm… I tried to finish this chapter with this section, but… It didn't work. I'm long-winded, I know! My outline says I've got to cover at least four more plot points in this chapter, so… We're going to have a part three! Woot! Give me two weeks to get it out to you guys. If it's not out by then, feel free to message me repeatedly until I get it out to you.

My medical knowledge is still limited to the things I might have read about once, that one time, somewhere.

Never give me a scalpel. It won't end well.

This story is canon-compatible up to "Skin Deep."

Reviews/Reviewers are loved.

Thank you and enjoy!

---

**Chapter Six: So I Can Sew It, Part Two**

_I want…  
I want so much I'm breathless  
I want to put my power into a poem  
To burn a hole in your pocket  
So I can sew it.  
-Nicole Burdette_

---

His hair hurt.

He wasn't quite sure if it was possible for hair to hurt, but that was the best description James had for the disconcerting pain that seemed to radiate from his scalp. Not from his head mind you (which wasn't to say that it wasn't protesting his actions from the night before in its own, special, depraved, way), his scalp. Excluding the idea that he had developed a particularly nasty brand of dandruff, the only logical conclusion was that his hair hurt.

Once all of this had processed and Jimmy had confirmed that he was satisfied with the result of his ponderings, the only coherent thought left to him was, _Ouch_.

Yes. That summed it up nicely.

Searching for the obnoxious screech that had interrupted his peaceful rest, he swung his arm out randomly, satisfied with the crash that met his ears even as he winced. The pain was insignificant when compared to the satisfaction he felt at getting the beeping to stop. In some far off area of his subconscious, he made a mental note to buy a new alarm clock.

Slowly, he sat up, pushing covers off of himself as he tried to force his brain to stop bouncing off of the walls of his skull. His mind was seemingly content to ignore him, gleefully causing him to furrow his brow and flinch from the mild light of morning that spilled in through his windows.

Wilson cursed his inability to carry his liquor like House. That man could drink a gallon of vodka and wake up the next morning complaining of nothing more than a mild pinprick from his temple. Sure, Wilson was bitter, but wouldn't anyone be?

Resigned to his fate, Wilson hauled his legs over the edge of the bed, regretting the motion instantly as his head gave an internal explosion in protest. Groaning, he brought his hands to his head, catching a glint out of the corner of his eye. He looked to his bedside table and saw a glass of water sparkling in the sunlight and two comforting white pills waiting for him, along with a red apple.

Slightly confused at how the pills and fruit had ended up on the table, but temporarily forgetting the uncertainty of their origins for immediate relief, he internally sung the praises of Advil as he downed the medication. He then promptly flopped back into his bed, regretting the motion almost instantly.

Sudden movements were definitely a no, even if they were motions of the pathetic verity, such as collapsing. Puking probably wouldn't be pleasant either.

Hangovers had no pity.

Unlike other things. Like young, annoyingly persistent and overly compassionate immunologists.

Wilson groaned. He didn't like to inflict his sorry company upon others. They certainly had done nothing wrong, and he had no need to tell them of his troubles. James liked to be discreet with his misery, to hide it away for his personal perusal. His pain was not a spectacle, not an unfortunate personality trait and not a badge of honor. It was a private defeat, one that he liked to briefly contemplate and then erase from his mind, moving on with the more relevant matters of his existence. Through this method, he had discovered, he could learn to live with anything.

But this time, the defeat was harder to shake. James had been upset, far more distraught the night before than he had been in several decades. Truth be told, he was still distressed. He _hurt_, a horrible wrenching pain that he couldn't reach the source of, a wound that he couldn't sew back together. And from that gash came a loss and sorrow that he had no way to remedy.

How do you mourn for a child you would never know? Regret losing a woman you never loved? Forgive yourself for a betrayal committed over a decade past?

He was bleeding internally, and he hated it. But, at least that was better than getting the blood on his clothes. As long as there was no physical evidence, pain was easy to ignore. To overlook. Without confirmation or validation of its existence, anything could be forgotten. It made pretending easy.

However, evidence had been leaked. Someone knew, and if someone knew, that made it far too easy for the whole thing to become real.

Which left him with his original thought. Cameron was annoyingly persistent and overly compassionate, and because of this combination he had happily shared far more than he had intended.

Or at least, he thought he had. It was a bit hard to recall, and this was rather disturbing to Wilson. This was the second time in the past two months that he had woken up with little recollection of the night before, indicating bad things about his drinking habits.

He hoped House would never hear about this. The diagnostician gave James a hard enough time as it was, stating more than once that Wilson's stomach was not 'up to par' with Greg's drinking standards.

Jimmy, again, suppressed the bitterness, and focused his attention on the slightly more troubling problem on his hands.

What had he done last night?

Cameron had driven him to a bar when his car broke down. She had shown up again around his fifth glass of scotch.

He remembered that.

He had spilled his soul, agreed to talk with Sara, and then puked his guts out.

Sadly, he remembered all of that as well. The humiliation of the experience was great enough that no amount of alcohol would ever allow that particular occurrence to slip his mind.

Cameron had then driven him home and he had promptly sprawled on the couch, not even bothering to kick off his shoes before he attempted to reach sweet oblivion.

He woke up this morning in his bed with his pajamas on.

Obviously, something was missing. And this absent chunk of time was very bothersome, as he had the suspicion that something important had occurred.

Sighing, acknowledging that there was little he could do at present time about the selective amnesia, Wilson slowly sat up, holding a hand to his head as he righted himself. He assumed that the fact that he didn't feel like screaming was a testament to the Advil taking effect, although the room did shift uncomfortably while his head gave an annoyed pound at the movement.

Sitting up: a success. Things were going well.

He glanced over to the side-table, picking up the apple with a frown on his face as he caught a flash of neon yellow from bellow it.

Still frowning, he picked up the post-it note.

_W,_

_I assume that if you can read this without your eyes falling out, you've taken the Advil. Eat the apple on an empty stomach and wait for the magic. _

Wilson raised his eyebrows (painfully) in suspicion.

As if anticipating this response, the letter continued.

_Don't diss it until you've tried it! Trust me. Without this highly effective method I never would have survived college, much less med school. _

_I set the alarm for seven and turned off your cell and pager, both of which are on the coffee table in the living room. I'll lock the door on my way out. _

_See you at work, _

_-C _

Wilson would have fallen back on his bed in self-disgust if he had been willing to deal with the trouble of sitting back up again.

Memory was coming back to him now.

Wilson had left his briefcase in her car, forgot to lock his door and been utterly smashed when she had entered his apartment. She had turned up the heat in the house and mentioned the three months from a year ago that he preferred not to think about.

Then there had been some comment about getting naked.

Wilson groaned again as he recalled the feel of her thin shoulders under his hands, the smell of her hair, the soothing feel of her pressed against his side.

Dammit.

What the hell had he done?

Wilson stood up and started pacing, determined to figure out what, exactly, he had done with Allison Cameron last night, headache be damned. He riffled through the fragmented memories of the night before, bringing to mind thoughts of contentment, discomfort and profound gratitude. Whatever had happened, he had… enjoyed it. Yes, there were vague feelings of mild irritation, but even these were tainted with a hint of humor and appreciation. Even the awkward feelings he could recall had been pleasurable in some way, a sudden flash of blue (green? Gray? What color were those eyes?) flashing through Wilson's brain as he unconsciously smiled.

Crap.

Wilson's pacing increased as his panic grew.

He couldn't have, wouldn't have, slept with her. She wasn't his to have.

She was too young, beautiful and smart to waste herself on a man who couldn't keep a marriage together even if he had been physically stapled to his wives. Who spent more time at work than at home, had one, less-than-friendly, friend and a reputation for betrayal that was legendary.

And she loved House.

He wouldn't, even if he had swallowed all the liquor on the east coast, have slept with Allison Cameron.

He took in a breath and stopped the pacing, bringing a hand to his neck and rubbing. There had to be an explanation.

One, Wilson was not the sort to forget having sex. A combination of concern towards his partner's feelings and his obvious enjoyment of the activity provided him with a clarity that not even alcohol could diminish.

Two, her note left no hint of any intimacy other that of colleagues quickly becoming friends. Cameron, as a result of her conviction and emotional honesty, would not be able to hide her feelings if someone gave her a wall to cower behind. This was not necessarily a fault, although it did provide the careful observer with clear indication of her emotional status at virtually all times.

Wilson felt a pang of sympathy for the girl. House had to be giving her hell, likely noticing the distress caused by Clara's cancer.

In any case, even through writing Wilson had the impression that she would not let a brief sexual encounter go unnoticed.

Third, he was in night clothes. When a man has just slept with a woman, he does not get up, clean off, pull on a T-shirt and some pajama pants and then get back into bed. This was doubly true of a drunk man. James was no exception to these basic laws of human nature. Like women going to the store for an outfit and coming home with seven, so too were men able to do nothing requiring more thought than becoming unconscious after sex. It was just the way the universe worked.

Four, the sheets were clean.

If a man won't get changed after sex, he sure as hell isn't going to clean the sheets.

Wilson heaved a sigh of relief, giving his neck one last rub before bring the arm down. He could only assume that he had fallen asleep while she was still in the apartment, which, while embarrassing, didn't carry the moral consequences that he had feared he would be faced with. Content with his conclusions, feeling ridiculous for his initial assumption, James grabbed the apple, took a bite and headed for the bathroom to get ready for work.

By the time he had gotten dressed, by which point the apple was long gone, Wilson was surprised to note that his headache had been reduced to a dull throb at the base of his skull, which if not pleasant, certainly didn't leave him inept. He made a mental note to be certain to thank Cameron for letting him in on her cure.

And to apologize, of course. Dealing with a drunken colleague and being groped (or at least touched far more frequently than is appropriate), was not the ideal way to spend a night after a twenty-eight hour stint at the hospital.

His guilt was made even worse by the fact that he had selfishly appreciated her company. At the bar, Allison had been an unpredictably illuminating presence, and her kindness to him afterwards spoke volumes about her infinite patience and nurturing nature. Such a help and aid had been shockingly welcome to Wilson, who was far more used to picking up the pieces of others rather than having others scoop up his pathetic remains.

He was profoundly grateful to her for sweeping him up again.

Perhaps too grateful.

James gave himself a mental kick and decided to give Cameron sincere thanks when he saw her, but to otherwise ignore the events of the night before for the time being. They were far too complicated to pore over and he had much more pressing issues to deal with at the moment.

Like how he was going to get to work.

He made his way to the living room, quickly picking up his cell phone from off of the coffee table, turning it on and pressing speed dial.

Two rings later, and someone had picked up the phone.

"House?"

A grunt.

Decidedly cheerful for Greg, so early in the morning. Frankly, James was surprised House had been up at all. It was only eight. When he wasn't trying to spite Wilson or ruin his friend's reputation in some way, Greg never came into the hospital earlier than nine thirty.

But, Jimmy wasn't one to question good fortune when it came his way. "Could you give me a ride to work? Car's broken down."

"Can't," there was a slight intake of breath as James heard the thump of House collapsing onto some piece of furniture. "Shame too, 'cause you aren't pretty enough to hitchhike effectively. And as thigh flashing will get you nowhere, you're so going to be late. Cuddy will hit you with a ruler for being tardy. You'd like that, wouldn't you Spandex Boy?"

Wilson thought it best to ignore the reference to the duck story, lest he encourage the older man. "House, come on. I know you don't like driving the Vette over the bike, but help me out here. How many times have I driven you to work?" The correct answer was, 'at least twice a week for the past five years.' House, however, made no reply. "Now get off of your ass and repay the favor."

"As moving as a plea as that was," a muted gasp, "still can't."

Wilson furrowed his brow at the pained sound. "What's wrong?"

"My leg hurts."

There was a silence as James turned that comment over in his head, finding that it seemed odd for some reason. House's leg hadn't bothered him enough to prevent him from driving in many years, and ever since the year before one Vicodin left him perfectly capable of performing most tasks without complaint...

Shit.

"I forgot to give you your pills last night."

"Did you? Is that why my leg's being particularly touchy this morning? Huh, go figure."

"I'll be there in twenty minutes."

He hung up before Greg had a chance to say anything, grabbing his briefcase, wallet, keys, the bottle of pills and all but running out of the door.

Once outside he frantically hailed a taxi, jumping in the first car that pulled over and swiftly yelling an address at the driver before retreating to his disturbed thoughts.

Wilson didn't regret those three months, even if he had hated every instant of them. It was the hardest thing he had ever done, to listen to Greg as he begged Jimmy to kill him and do nothing. To watch as his friend slowly suffered and make no move to help him. James knew that he had done the right thing; that if Greg had continued as he had been he would have lost his job, reputation and what was left of the redeemable qualities House found in himself. Then, nothing would hold the diagnostician back from doing something spectacularly stupid.

But just because it had been right did not mean that it had been easy. Yes, House had gotten better, but before he had gotten better he had gotten much much worse, and Wilson had been the only one to see that. The only one to cause that.

At least when he began his patients on chemo he permitted himself to care about them, however slightly. To express concern and compassion and to offer reassurances as they were needed. With cancer, you had to poison the body if you wanted it to live. Yes, it was painful and yes it was unpleasant, but everyone knew that it was necessary. Patients walked into the pain freely, trusting Doctor Wilson to help them through.

But House hadn't thought that the poisoning of his particular cancer was needed, was unresponsive and hostile to James' usual brand of persuasive compassion (or his brand of forceful pestering, a method reserved especially for Greg) and had no desire to let 'Doctor Wilson' help him through anything. And so, Jimmy had been forced to deal with the problem another way. House's way.

He bullied the older doctor into doing what had to be done, and then did his best to become emotionally detached from the man writhing on the bed as the overwhelming need for the drug overtook him.

Just another patient. Draw the blinds, harsh light would soon cause pain. Cold compress to the head, bowl near by. Can't be left alone, self-destructive tendencies. Ignore the begging, the sweating, the shaking; all pain induced as a result of withdrawal. Above all, do not help him. This is unpleasant, but necessary. The patient will be much better in the long run if he suffers now than if you allow the current trend to continue.

Watching Greg as he detoxed and forcing himself to remain uncaring and rational while it happened had almost killed Jimmy. He had meant to keep up a harsh and demanding commentary during the whole process, but he found he was incapable of doing so. He didn't like making his friend suffer, didn't revel in it. He could barely keep up his show of apathy. Attempting outright aggression was out of the question. By the time the worst was over, James had abandoned his plan of bullying House and instead convinced himself to keep silent, for fear of losing his nerve to see the detox through.

Wilson has been certain that House would never forgive him for what he had done to the diagnostician, doubted that Greg would stay off the drugs longer than a week and didn't expect to be invited to any more monster truck rallies. Greg did not like being made vulnerable, didn't like being told what to do and was no fan of pain. Wilson had caused or done all of them, and if James could not forgive himself for such things, House certainly wouldn't.

But, he had. Had thanked him, even.

Not verbally, of course. When something of this magnitude occurred, House was not the sort to give a big hug and a heartfelt 'thank you.'

But he had given Wilson his pills.

Done out of gratitude, a sign of trust, a promise. Whatever it had been intended as, it was powerful, and Wilson had never forgotten to give Greg two pills before he went home every day.

Until now.

After what James had put House through, the least he could do was keep the doctor's supply of Vicodin, preventing House from taking more than he should and giving the man an extra fail-safe if the pain was greater than usual and he needed an extra pill. Simply, Greg had trusted him (and House didn't trust anyone), and Wilson, too wrapped up in his self-pity to remember his obligations, had let his friend down in a way James swore he never would.

He had caused House pain, for another stupid, selfish, reason. He had failed, again.

The cab stopped and James quickly threw the man some money, grossly over paying for the trip but not caring as he walked quickly up the steps to Greg's apartment. Using his spare-key for the first time since Greg had given it to him, Wilson unlocked the door and entered the apartment, sighing in relief when he saw a cane leaning against the sofa.

He walked around the piece of furniture to see Greg on his couch, still in his pajamas, right leg laid carefully on the cushions. His eyes were closed, his jaw was clenched and Wilson could just make out a few beads of sweat on his forehead.

"House, I'm so-"

"Shut up."

Wilson's mouth snapped closed.

The diagnostician held out a hand, eyes still closed. "Gimme."

James gave House the whole bottle.

Greg opened the bottle and dry swallowed a pill, almost sighing in relief as his hand remained clenched around the orange plastic.

Wilson's guilt increased. "House, I'm sor-"

House opened his eyes to glare. "Stop."

"But I need to apologize, I can't believe I-"

House held up a hand. "Seriously. Shut up. Once you start I know you won't be able to stop yourself." House adopted a sincere tone, "'I'm sorry, I didn't mean it. The cancer kids made me do it.'" House rolled his eyes, giving his friend an annoyed stare. "You get so guilty and end up looking like a puppy that's just been kicked. Not to say that if you were a puppy you wouldn't deserve a kick," House grimaced as he sat up on the couch, "you've been a very bad pill-watcher. But as fun as causing you anguish is, I'm not up for tormenting you properly at the moment. So hold out for about twenty minutes, would you? Besides, your whimpering is annoying so early in the morning."

Wilson sighed, pacing in front of House, rubbing the back of his neck and calling himself a thousand types of fool. "Last night, and this morning-"

"Sucked," House interjected helpfully, smirking at the pained expression the younger doctor sent him. "You should really leave your phone and pager on. Even tried the apartment phone but got no dial-tone." Greg raised an eyebrow. "Someone must have been enjoying himself."

Wilson sighed, "Julie took the phone when she left, I haven't thought to get it replaced..."

"Still doesn't explain the cell and pager being off." House sent Wilson a penetrating look, as the oncologist did his best to keep his face blank. Telling House about Cameron being at his apartment last night didn't seem like an intelligent idea.

"It's okay Jimmy," House grinned, "Hookers are lovely women. If you wanted a private evening with one of the mistresses of the night, why didn't you just say so?"

James halted his pacing for a moment to give House a scowl.

"Hey, just had a divorce, ran into your first ex-wife... Nothing's wrong with a nice call-girl every now and then to ease the pain."

"I didn't call a hooker," Wilson muttered, not stopping his rapid movements in front of House's TV.

"Shame. If I suffered through unending suffering and agony, it should have at least been for something worthwhile."

Wilson sighed heavily, "House," he stopped pacing and turned back to his friend, "I can't believe I did this."

House groaned.

"I'm-"

"Incapable of following instructions?"

Wilson exhaled and gave his neck a particularly forceful rub.

House gave an exasperated gesture and slowly pulled his leg off of the couch, sitting up fully with only a slight wince as his feet touched the floor. "Look, if listening to your pathetic apologies would do me any good, I'd be all for it. But really, they're just going to give me a migraine, and I don't like migraines. They hurt. So," Greg had an expression that many have on their face when they're talking to a particularly dull child, "The best apology you could give is not apologizing at all, got it?"

Wilson stopped pacing as he pulled his hand away from his neck, bringing it to his face as he nodded.

"Good."

There was a rattle in front of him and James lowered his hand. Greg was looking at him expectantly, bottle of pills held out expectantly in front of him.

Wilson stared at the capsule, sending a confused glance to House. "But I forgot to-"

"Yeah. You did."

"And you still trust me to keep these?"

"Yes."

Shocked, Wilson put the pills in his pocket without further comment.

House clapped his hands together enthusiastically. "Great. Now, for the fun stuff." He leaned forward. "Why did you forget?"

Wilson glared. "I thought you said you didn't want me to talk about it?"

"No no no," Greg shook his head sadly. "I said I didn't want to listen to your outpouring of guilt. That doesn't mean I'm not curious as to what would make Saint Jimmy forget his responsibilities. Big difference."

"You're annoying."

"But somehow still charming."

"Your particular brand of charm hasn't been appealing since the invention of the wheel."

Pause. "Are you comparing me to a Neanderthal?"

"Yes. It seemed like a more than apt description."

"Ouch. And this from the man who just caused me twelve hours of pain..."

"So you don't want me to feel guilty unless it benefits you, in which case you shall encourage such feelings?"

"When opportunity knocks I am more than willing to take complete advantage of it."

Wilson sighed.

"Tell me." He was serious now, expression somber.

James brought his hand back to his neck, compulsively kneading the skin. "It's Julie."

House stared. "What about her? You two decide that you need to 'give it another go'?"

Wilson snorted. "No," he began to pace again, "she..." He exhaled loudly, stopping his rapid movements and staring at the older man. "She's pregnant."

Greg said nothing, still staring intently, knowing there was more.

House knew him too well.

"And she's not keeping the baby."

He had said it. Without the alcohol in his system that let him think that it didn't matter, that it meant nothing. That it didn't hurt.

He all but collapsed into the large brown chair in the room, bringing a palm to his face. "She's not keeping it." It was said softly, murmured into his hand, almost a whisper. But he knew that House heard him.

There was a silence.

"I'm sorry."

"Me too."

Neither said anything for a time, Wilson removing the hand from his face and tilting his neck back onto the chair, closing his eyes and inhaling deeply, regret in his mind. House seemed content to let the man gather himself, not a noise coming from him.

He heard a rustle of fabric and the _step thud_ of House walking down his hallway, but ignored the sounds.

Minutes later, there was a tap on his shoulder. "Come on," Wilson jerked his head up to see House hovering above him, fully dressed. "You don't want to be late to play with all the cancer kids, even if they are manipulative bald little buggers." House hobbled away from James, headed for the door, his grip white on the handle of his cane.

Wilson eyed his progress with concern. "Are you all right?"

"Fine dear, I could use some Midol though." House was scowling quite effectively. "Here," he threw his keys at Wilson, James catching them just before they hit his face.

He would have been upset, but he was still blinking repeatedly at the keys. "You're letting me drive the Vette?"

"Well I can't, and I am not riding bitch with you in control of my bike."

Wilson grinned.

"Come on; car's in the garage."

They made their way to the car, Wilson smiling in satisfaction when he turned the key to the, absolutely beautiful, vehicle and it hummed at him.

He didn't know cars could hum.

"Don't you salivate on my car."

Wilson glared. "I don't salivate."

"That dribble on your chin begs to differ."

Wilson rolled his eyes as he pulled out of the underground building, heading towards the hospital, enjoying every second of the experience. He recognized it for what it was; Greg helping him forget.

Too many people assumed, including House himself, that Wilson got nothing from the friendship the two doctors shared. And while he could be annoying beyond reason, had a tendency to cause more problems than any other man Wilson had ever met and never passed up an opportunity to be a jerk, House knew Jimmy. Knew that, when faced with a problem with no solution, Wilson needed to forget. Needed a distraction.

Greg was excellent at providing these, and did so, expecting, and wanting, nothing in return.

It was selfless, although House would never see it that way. He would insist he was just trying to entertain himself, and if that meant watching five hours of baseball games on TV, going to a monster truck rally, or mocking James while he drooled over the Vette, so be it.

"I will never understand why you don't drive this thing more."

House shrugged. "Chicks dig the bike, what can I say? Besides, this keeps the paint job from getting screwed up."

"But it drives like-"

"It's straight out of heaven? I know." House patted the glove box fondly. "My big, red, '65 angel."

"I think you have more affection for this car than for people."

"And this surprises you?"

"Not at all. I think I like this car more than most people."

House sent him a suspicious glance. "Hey; hands off, Boy Wonder. She's mine."

James grinned, "Relax, Sparky."

House growled and James's grin widened.

"So how's Pratt?" He pushed aside the thoughts of Sara and Julie.

"Eh," House leaned back in his seat, "He's not dead yet."

"Always a good sign."

"He had an allergic reaction to peanuts, then had the same reaction a week later, but not to peanuts."

"That... Makes no sense."

"Nope. But that's the kind of thing we're stuck with in the department where they send the cases that don't make sense."

"Go figure."

"How about you? Got any interesting patients?"

Jimmy's thoughts went straight to Clara. But, assuming that House meant medically interesting, "Nope. Nothing unusual."

"Nothing at all?"

"No cases that would interest you," medically.

James felt the diagnostician's accusing eyes on him without turning.

He sighed. "You found out about Clara, didn't you?"

House grumbled. "Yes, and not from you, I might add. Why didn't you tell me?"

"Wait, this is familiar, hold on." Wilson tilted his head and gave an exaggerated gasp. "That's right. This is the same conversation we had when Chase's dad came in. What was my answer then?" James furrowed his brow, "Oh, right. Doctor patient confidentiality."

"Stop trying to protect my minions."

"Someone should. You're not exactly gentle with them, are you? Do you remember what happened when Chase's dad came?"

"I tormented both Chases endlessly. Your point?"

"I would want to encourage this kind of behavior because...?"

"It's fun to watch people cry?"

Wilson let out an exasperated sigh. "Grow a soul or something."

"I would, but I don't think they work like Chia-pets, and anything requiring more effort than that is beyond me."

"I find it funny that you can keep people on the verge of death from keeling over, but you can't handle watering a plant."

"Yeah, well. People complain when you don't take care of them. I do it just to shut them up."

There was a small moment of silence. "You would tell me about a new case if the patient wasn't related to someone on my team. Why aren't you morally outraged about that?" House, when his expertise in the art of whining was displayed to its full effect, was incredibly trying.

"You wouldn't care or ask about a new case if the patient wasn't related to someone on your team."

A pause. "You have a point." House huffed. "Still. You should have told me. Or someone should have told me."

Jimmy raised an eyebrow. "You're honestly upset about this, aren't you?"

House shrugged. "I like knowing stuff."

Wilson grinned. "Right. How did you find out anyway?"

"Went into her room when I was avoiding clinic. Watched General Hospital."

"Wait," Wilson turned to stare at his friend while they were at a stop-light. "You watched General Hospital with a patient?"

"Twice."

"Even though you knew she was Cameron's sister?"

"Not exactly."

Wilson narrowed his eyes briefly at his friend before turning back to the road. "You like her."

House sent him a bewildered look.

"Don't look so insulted. I never said you wanted to have sex with her," Wilson gave his friend a serious look, "Seriously, don't. Her husband could tear you in two."

"I do not _like_ her. I don't _like_ people, especially patients. And I saw her husband," House shook his head. "He's The Hulk in disguise, mark my words."

Wilson rolled his eyes. "You like her and that's why you're mad now. If you like her, you can't use her like another puzzle piece to bother Cameron with."

"I'm mad because I've been lied to by my entire team, your patient and you."

James smirked. "It's okay to admit it, you know. She's a very nice woman."

"Jimmy, I don't like her."

"Keep telling yourself that."

"You know, I'm starting to understand your point about how the 'annoy them to death' definition of friendship is rather irritating."

"And I'm just starting to get why it's so appealing. Funny how that works, huh?"

House glared. "I hope a cancer kid pukes on you."

Ten minutes later Wilson was pulling into the Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital parking lot.

House looked out the window and then quickly pulled his head back in. "Am I imagining the herd of reporters out there?"

Wilson shook his head, parking the car and staring at the mass of people. "Not unless you've decided to share your hallucinations." Wilson eyed the crowd suspiciously. "They look like they're out for blood."

"Maybe Cuddy's decided this is the way she wants to kill me. It might just be more horrid than death by extended exposure to the clinic."

---

Cuddy had been mean to him.

After he and Wilson had battled through all of the reporters and made their way into the hospital, she greeted them, eyeing the crowd of vultures with an angry stare.

She had then told House that if he didn't get Pratt checked out of the hospital by the end of the day, she was going to throw the billionaire out, gown still on, sickness or no. And while House would actually be amused by this, he thought it best to make an effort to diagnose the man. He liked his job, and he certainly didn't want to have to train a new Dean of Medicine, not after he finally taught Cuddy how to roll over.

So, Greg had obediently made his way to the office, and was now idly tossing his tennis ball in the air from one end of the table while Chase worked diligently on a crossword from the other.

The diagnostics team, hard at work.

After a few minutes without the entrance of his other two doctors, House reluctantly stopped playing with his toy. "Where's Foreman?" Chase looked up, eyebrow raised. "He have a car to steal? Drugs to sell? Or is he out getting me those chocolates?"

"Actually," Chase pushed the crossword aside and brought the pen he had been using to his mouth, "he's giving a consult."

"Disappointing. And Cameron?"

"Not in yet."

"Hmm... Perhaps filming a 'Girls Gone Wild' tape?" Or sleeping off a day spent watching a heart monitor beep and wiping runny noses.

Probably the latter.

A shame. His version was more fun.

Chase blinked. "Informing you that Cameron would sell her soul before being in one of those-"

"Would be entirely useless."

"Got it."

They fell into a comfortable silence, Chase stretching in his seat while Greg gave the ball another toss.

House... tolerated Chase, despite his many glaring faults. Unlike Foreman, he wasn't a great doctor, and unlike Cameron, he didn't work hard to make up for this lack of raw intelligence. Instead he was content to remain average, common. To coast along, performing his job without actually caring about it. Personally, House had no problem with this, so long as Blondie was willing to step up when it was needed of him.

The fact that House was content with less than Chase's best was more than a little lucky for the Aussie. If he had any other boss (one who could recognize his potential to be more, much more, than what the young doctor was settling with), Chase would have been smacked upside the head and forced to work harder.

Chase was creative. When he actually took the time to consider a case as something more than a necessary chore, invested something greater into the work, he could be brilliant. Foreman was smart, but he was smart in a way that a textbook is smart. You can look up every disease known to man and draw lines from point A to point B, but sometimes knowledge alone isn't enough. Chase was resourceful, imaginative. He wasn't always right, but when he was interested in a case and was willing to apply himself, he drew lines from point A to point Q. When these leaps weren't blatantly stupid (and they were most of the time), they were pure genius. Chase could look at a set of symptoms, see the same data as everyone else, and come up with an off-the-wall diagnosis or solution that no one else would have considered. Like taking an X-ray to find a tape worm, extracting liquid from an eye to bring back sight or ultrasounding a brain when the MRI machine was being used.

He had a unique perspective, and unfortunately, that was a quality that was often seen as worthless in the medical profession. Except in one area.

Diagnostics.

Of course, these flashes of brilliance happened so rarely that House had a tendency to forget that Chase was capable of producing them, as did just about everyone else.

House had the impression that Chase liked it that way.

Thanks to Mommy and Daddy, the intensivist didn't expect anything from anyone, including himself. It was why he had been so eager to sell House out to Vogler, anticipating the swing of the axe long before House had considered using it. Why he had tried to hide the death of his father from his superiors, certain that they would be unwilling to give him any allowances. It was why he didn't strive to advance his career. If others could disappoint you, you could certainly disappoint yourself, and if you wanted more, you could fail and never reach it.

But, despite these flaws, House tolerated Chase.

Didn't like him (House didn't like people), but tolerated him.

He and the Aussie had reached an understanding early on in the intensivist's fellowship. Chase would do what House asked, would contribute as needed, but would not be given any expectations to fill beyond basic grunt-work and an occasional theory about a patient. House would be sent an odd look every now and then when he suggested something particularly outlandish, but he did not need to concern himself with Chase questioning or berating him for his theories or patient care. Chase wouldn't ask his boss any personal questions, and House would do the same for his employee.

It was a simple, non-verbal, agreement (one that House, admittedly, had broken several times to satisfy his curiosity and that Chase had broken once, when House's addiction had been at its worst), and it worked well for them. House could understand Chase, and Chase could appreciate what other's saw as House's flaws.

As a result, they made a great team.

House made a mental note to get them matching outfits.

"Does Wilson's wife work with Pratt?" Chase had pulled the pen out of his mouth and was now leaning back in his chair, slouching rather artfully.

Greg stopped concocting a logo to put on the back of their capes and brought his attention to the conversation. "Nope. His new ex-wife does though."

Chase flinched in sympathy. "Ouch."

"It gets better."

"Does it?"

Chase was so much fun to gossip with.

"Mrs. Pratt?" The wombat nodded. "His first ex-wife."

He whistled. "Bad luck that." He stood up and grabbed his mug, headed for the coffee. "Explains a lot though."

House stared at him expectantly.

"We found her old college yearbook at Pratt's." Chase smirked. "Wilson was pining and pleading in his note." He grabbed his full cup and stirred the almost pure caffeine with a straw. "Classic."

"And you didn't tell me?" House grumbled as the younger man sat back down. Didn't people realize how much House liked knowing stuff? "That's twice you've failed me Chase."

He shrugged. "Oops?"

"Why didn't you notify me about the yearbook?"

"Didn't seem important."

House nodded reluctantly. "It wasn't." He'd be damned if he was going to let Chase off that easily though. "How about the cancer lady I was talking to? The fact that she shares a chromosome or two with Cameron slipped your mind?"

"I didn't think you'd care." The pen was in his mouth again. "It was irrelevant to the case and you looked too enthralled with your soap to listen to me anyway."

House blinked at him. Chase was many things, but he was not dumb enough to think that House would be uninterested in the personal affairs of anyone, much less Cameron.

The intensivist sighed. "Fine, Clara didn't want me to tell you and neither did Cameron."

Now for the interesting bit. "Why?"

"I have no idea. And even if I did I wouldn't tell you."

House glared. "Hey, I hold your leash." Greg tossed the ball up into the air again.

Chase rolled his eyes.

"Isn't your loyalty to me greater than your loyalty to them?" A pause as he caught the ball, "Oh, wait. You slept with Cameron, didn't you? Embarrassing performance? Afraid of the rumors that will spread if you defy her?"

Chase shook his head and let out a bitter laugh. "Her desire to keep you unaware of her personal life is not exactly irrational given your history." He sent House a significant glance.

House didn't have the time to analyze it properly however, as at that instant Cameron threw open the door to the diagnostics room and groaned.

"Reporters are like leeches."

"Blood-sucking parasites?" House tilted his head, pondering. "Seems right."

"It's chaos out there. I was almost cornered into giving an interview before Cuddy started growling, scared them all away and told me to get up here." She made her way around the table, collapsing into a chair and looking from one man to the other. "So, how's the case going? I hope it has nothing to do with that fiasco."

"Nothing spectacular here, about the case anyway. Chase is complaining about anal leakage again though. That's pretty spectacular, if disturbing."

Chase sent him an appalled look.

Cameron smirked and gave Chase a concerned glance. "I didn't realize that hanging out with my family had those side-effects."

They both grinned before Cameron turned to her bag, pulling out some files and setting them on the table.

House's gaze remained on Chase, who seemed profoundly relieved.

Chase, spending time with Cameron's family? Interesting in itself, combined with the relief that she could joke about his spending time with her family, and House had just stumbled upon some unresolved issues.

Greg made a mental note to ponder these findings at a later date.

As for now, to business.

"Alright duckies. Foreman's busy in the hood," Cameron's eyebrows shot up and he saw Chase mouth 'consult', "so it's just us." He wiggled his eyebrows and leered at his underlings. "Who's going to make the first move?" He stroked his cane suggestively.

"You need to stop including me in your sexual fantasies," Chase commented dryly as Cameron rolled her eyes and looked back to her files.

"Chase, you should be flattered. Besides, it could be fun..."

Chase stared at him. "Seriously."

Greg let out a huff of air. "Alright, fine. Your rejection's gotten me out of the mood anyway. I suppose we'll just have to talk about the patient instead."

Cameron's brow furrowed. "Shouldn't he be out of here by now?"

"That was the hope, but he just likes it so much here. When we tried to make him leave he acted like a kid that had been kicked out of Disneyland. Very pathetic."

Chase ignored him and explained. "House found out there was peanut extract in the candy at his mansion."

Cameron let out and exasperated sigh. "Of course there was."

"That sounded a bit sarcastic." House gave the tennis ball another toss, narrowing his eyes. "Losing your faith in the intelligence of humanity?"

"No," she glared at him. "He's a perfectly nice and smart man. He just made a simple mistake and it wasted a lot of time and money." A shrug, "It happens."

She didn't just say that, did she?

Mistakes did not just 'happen.' They were caused by people being stupid. To imply otherwise would remove the blame entirely, make the occurrence an unfortunate but uncontrollable event that no one could have prevented. And this, while comforting, was entirely false. Someone was always to blame and someone should always be held accountable, otherwise idiocy, and its consequences, became excusable.

Cameron, it seemed, needed to be reminded of this.

"Well he's not the only one who made a boo-boo. Be sure to save some of the credit for yourself."

"What?"

"You're the immunologist and you missed this. An agent that our patient was allergic to was in your possession, you even snacked on it, and you didn't notice. Not to mention the fact that you took the history and never once considered a food source."

"I did consider it, I just thought that since he knew he was allergic that he wouldn't have ingested anything with pean-"

"Apparently you didn't think enough. This kind of negligence is what gets people killed. Stop trying to pass out pardons when you're just as guilty."

Cameron looked away from him, staring at her files, ashamed.

Good.

She wouldn't make the mistake again.

Cameron rarely made blunders of any sort. She wouldn't allow herself to, especially when these errors could result in hurting someone else. However, when she did screw up, she would remedy the wrong as quickly as possible and learn from the experience, the guilt more than enough to goad her into never committing the act again.

In contrast, when Chase messed up, he acted as if it didn't matter. And although House doubted the man went home and agonized over every mistake he had ever made, he also doubted that he was able to dismiss them as easily as he pretended to. Greg liked to remind Chase about these inaccuracies whenever possible, simultaneously making sure that Chase took his slip-ups seriously and allowing House to view his reactions, trying to discover whether or not Chase was apathetic as he tried to believe he was.

Then, there was Foreman, who didn't like to believe that he made mistakes, much less attempt to learn from them. Not to say that House didn't make sure the lessons sunk in eventually, Foreman's reluctance to see himself as anything but infallible making the process all the more enjoyable. Brilliant people were so much fun to torment.

Sadly, it was never as satisfying with Cameron. When she knew that she had made a mistake, she took what he said to heart far too readily, offered no challenge in her acceptance of her errors and could often load herself with guilt to the point where she became worthless as a doctor for the rest of the day.

As such, allowing her to dwell would be counter-productive.

"However, we've only discovered half of the problem, so you have the opportunity to redeem yourself." She brought her gaze back up to his own, seemingly surprised. "The peanut didn't cause the second attack."

Chase, who had been more than willing to avoid the confrontation while it was occurring, perked up, disbelief plain on his every feature. "Impossible."

"Apparently not."

Cameron, still looking at House as if he had a particularly large booger hanging from his nose, frowned. "If the reactions were exactly the same in magnitude, there's no way different allergies could have caused each one. Peanuts promote very severe allergic reactions; the odds of his having another, different allergy at the same scale is impossible," she laughed bitterly. "That's why it was so hard for us to come up with an allergen to begin with. Nothing except peanut or something incredibly toxic can cause that kind of reaction."

"Technically, it's not impossible. Just very unlikely."

"If by 'very unlikely' you mean a hundred million to one?" Chase took another sip of coffee, smiling.

House nodded. "Exactly."

The two members of his team sent him confounded looks.

He sighed. "I know it doesn't make sense, but he hasn't had a piece of the candy or anything with the foul and deadly taint of peanut since the first attack." House stood up and hobbled to the whiteboard, grabbing a pen and uncapping it. "So, unless we find out that he's lying because he's afraid of looking like a bigger idiot than he already does, let's come up with another explanation, shall we? Any ideas?"

House was met with the disturbing sound of silence.

Cameron shook her head. "It had to be another reaction to peanut."

Greg groaned. "Fine. Chase," the intensivist stood up, "go quiz Pratt about everything he's eaten or inhaled since the first attack." Chase nodded and headed for the door. "And be quick about it. Cuddy's going to pull out a gun and start shooting people soon if we don't get the press to scram."

The Aussie grinned and left the room, images of a mad Cuddy on a rampage through PPTH's halls no doubt going through his mind.

Cameron stood as well, grabbing her pile of papers. "I'll go check his blood. Maybe there's another explanation that we're missing."

"No." House capped the marker and placed it back bellow the board. "We know it's an allergy."

"Then what should I do?" She asked, throwing the files on the table and crossing her arms over her chest. "File paperwork?"

And then House uttered the words he never thought he would say to a woman.

"We need to talk."

She gulped, shifted her feet and _clenched_.

He hated when she did that. Got tense and tightened her shoulders, trying to make herself smaller than she already was. Whenever he spoke to her she seemed to do it, like she was waiting for him to snap at her, lash out. To crush her.

It made him nervous. Irritated him. Reminded him how naive she was. How foolish. How hopelessly fragile.

It was those fragile things about her that made him want to shake her, knock some sense of self-preservation into her, scare her into being rational. Naïveté is not a trait to be proud of, it's a weakness. Thinking the best of people doesn't make it true, it just makes you vulnerable. Trust without reason is not noble, it's stupid.

And it wasn't that she hadn't learned these things; it was that she refused to believe them. House could expose a flaw in her medical reasoning and she would quickly absorb this knowledge and adapt accordingly. The instant he attempted to do the same regarding the nature of people, he would be argued with, ignored or accused of being a bastard.

It didn't make sense, that someone so obviously damaged was all but asking to be hurt by anyone wishing to do so. It wasn't reasonable, wasn't smart. Made him want to rip her heart off of her sleeve and put it back where it belonged, where it would be safe from people like him.

And she saw that. But instead of moving the damn thing herself, placing it back in her ribcage and developing an awareness of harsh realities of the world, she clenched. Her one feeble resistance against the rest of humanity. Against him.

House didn't like Cameron (House didn't like people). She was too innocent, too nice. She saw things as she wanted to see them, not as they were, and this form of ignorance grated on his nerves more than any other. Having all access to the evidence but purposefully ignoring it because it didn't lead to the answer she wanted. It was why she liked him, thought him to be more than he actually was, that she could bring out 'the best in him', refusing to believe that there was no 'great man' buried under layers of cynicism. Her crush was a small infatuation, created by the belief that she could heal him, change him.

She couldn't. But she continued to believe she could, just like she continued to believe that humanity was good.

And as annoying as he found her persistence in these false ideals, he also found it interesting.

But having an interest in someone is far different than liking them.

Or at least that's what Greg told himself.

And now, it was time to figure out if she had finally learned something.

"Why didn't you tell me about your sister?"

She scowled at him, a disbelieving look on her face. "Did you honestly think I would want to?"

"Why not? You're all about the sharing of feelings."

"Not when they're just going to be mocked and ridiculed."

"Mocked, certainly. Ridicule though," he adopted an offended expression. "That's a bit much." His eyes went wide and he lowered his voice, speaking as if he was talking to a small child. "She does have cancer, after all."

"Right, that would stop you." She stared at him intently, sizing him up. "You pick apart every weakness you find in people just to watch them squirm, because it entertains you. And it doesn't matter what or who you stomp on in order to get your few laughs in. This," she sighed sadly, "won't be any different."

Greg furrowed his brow and leaned more heavily on his cane, looking her in the eye. "You distrust me that much?"

"Yes." Said instantly, without hesitation or time for speculation, but not quickly enough for House to miss the remote sound of remorse in her voice.

"Good."

She reached around him, grabbing the files from the table and then turning back to the door. "I'm going to go run more blood work. I'll give Pratt a scratch-test when Chase is done to see if there's something else he's allergic to that could have caused this."

She left, and Greg remained with a smug feeling of triumph, tainted by a confusing disappointment that he couldn't explain.

She had put her heart back where it belonged, where it was safe.

Away from him.

---

Chase had just left Diagnostics and was on his way to Pratt's room when something ran into him.

It rather hurt, actually.

But when he realized that the 'something' he had been hit by was a five foot, nine inch beautiful woman, the pain was easy to ignore.

She smiled and he forgot to breathe for a second. "Rob! Good, I found you. Would you lik-"

Sammy stopped mid-word, squinting her eyes and looking at his chest.

Chase frowned and did the same, glancing back up when he didn't notice anything odd.

"What?"

"Who dressed you this morning?"

Chase blinked. "Erm, I did?"

"Were your eyes closed?"

"Do you practice being cruel, or does it come naturally to you?" He smirked as he said it. If he didn't know himself better, hadn't trained himself to not care about people (much less ones he barely knew), he would have thought that he had missed her.

"I'm sorry," she said, grinning at him as she took a step closer, "But unless you're blind you have no excuse for this," she fingered his tie, "and this," a pluck at his sweater vest, "being anywhere near each other."

He attempted to block out the way she smelled so he could continue with the conversation in a somewhat coherent manner. "What's wrong with them?"

"Well, for starters, the tie is bright yellow and the vest is pale green. Secondly, the tie is _outside_ of the vest."

Rob was missing something. "Your point being...?"

Sammy shook her head sadly, bringing her head to his shoulder with a thump. "I'm sorry, you're not allowed around my family anymore, especially not Matt. I don't want you to corrupt him."

Chase was silent for a moment, relishing the contact of her hand still clinging to his vest. It was a shame that this wonderful proximity was about it end. "So, does this mean that I win the bet then?"

She backed away, let go of the fabric and hit him lightly on the arm.

"Ow! First you run into me, then you hit me... Awfully abusive, aren't you?"

She rolled her eyes but otherwise ignored his comments. "You have _not _won the bet. You are simply not allowed near my loved ones until you learn how to dress properly."

"What's wrong with this?"

Sammy had an expression on her face that clearly stated, 'you are an utter moron'. "You're not serious?"

Chase raised an eyebrow and nodded.

"You look like an Easter egg."

He glanced down at his outfit again. Yellow cross-hatched tie, light green vest, plaid white and blue shirt, tan trousers.

What was the problem?

"I don't see it."

"Oh wow." She brought her wrist up to her line of vision, eyeing her watch. "What time do you get off?"

Rob narrowed his eyes, nervous. "Why?"

She lowered her arm brought her gaze up to his face. "No questions. You're no longer permitted them."

"Because I can't dress?"

"No. Because you can't dress and don't realize that you can't dress. It's like sending a leper to a highly populated area without telling him that his limbs are about to fall off. Not only is he going to be miserable when he discovers his disease, but he's going to emotionally scar the innocent bystanders when he's walking around and loses an ear."

Chase blinked again. "Thank you for that fairly disgusting image."

A smirk. "My pleasure. The point is, you're a danger to yourself and to everyone around you." She patted his shoulder. "But it's alright. We're going to get you help. Now what time do you get off?"

"Around five." She was a woman on a mission; the smartest thing for him to do would be just to sit back and let her do whatever she saw fit. To defy her now was to risk her wrath, which he was certain would be mighty and not a little scary.

Best to just submit to her whims.

"Okay. I have to drive Clara home at four, but I should be back by then."

Chase's brow furrowed. "She's back so soon?"

Sammy smirked. "Why, Doctor Chase, is that concern? Might you have a certain fondness for my darling sister-in-law?"

He sent her an exasperated look. "Curiosity is one of my many faults."

Sammy grinned. "Well if it is a curiosity tinged with apprehension, remain calm. Just a check-up before her surgery tomorrow."

"Lumpectomy?"

She inclined her head slightly and bit her lip.

"Don't worry," Robert reassured her quickly, not wanting to see her upset. "She'll be fine. It's a very standard procedure and the chances of something going wrong are slim to none."

"Oh, I know." She released her lip from between her teeth and gave another smile. "Jim explained everything to us. It's just," she sighed, "I just can't help but be a little apprehensive."

Chase nodded his understanding, not knowing what to say. His policy had always been that when emotionally loaded topics entered the conversation, the best thing to do was change the subject.

"Wilson's been spending a lot of time with you all then?"

Sammy nodded, gesturing down the hall in the direction he had been going originally, the two beginning to walk slowly together down the crowded passage.

It never failed.

"Tons. He's actually with Clara now."

"Still talking about the lumpectomy?"

"No." She tilted her head. "I'm pretty sure when I left they were discussing casserole recipes."

Chase blinked. "Casserole recipes?"

She shrugged. "They like cooking."

"Wilson gets too close to his patients," he muttered to himself.

Apparently, Sammy heard him. She raised an eyebrow. "You think that because Clara's his patient he shouldn't treat her like a person?"

"It's not that." He looked at her, debating whether or not he should say what was on his mind.

"Do it," she said, adopting a grim expression. "If it's insulting I promise to leave some recognizable features so they can ID the body."

He grinned. "Doctors aren't encouraged to become overly attached to patients, in case," a small pause as he thought about how to nicely phrase 'they kick the bucket,' "the worst should happen."

She smirked. "Al must be wonderful at that." The sarcasm was apparent in every syllable.

"Yeah," they exchanged a knowing look before Chase continued. "It makes it difficult for a doctor to do their job properly."

"But what about the patient?"

Chase shrugged. "In my experience most patients don't want their doctors to be their friends. Makes it all too personal."

"Really?" Sammy gave him a doubting look. "Would you trust your life to someone who views you as another statistic rather than a human being?"

"All doctors care about statistics."

"But if they didn't care about you? Just saw you as another pin cushion?"

"As long as I'm a pin cushion that helps determine their salary." People could always be counted on to do the selfish thing.

She squinted at him and then turned away quickly. "I don't think I could be comfortable with that. And Clara certainly wouldn't. You should know what she's like by now." A fond upturning of her lips, "She adopts everyone she sees and becomes instant friends with them. If Jim took that personal bond away from her…" a sigh. "Well, she wouldn't be nearly as calm as she is now."

"Clara does seem the type," Chase grinned at recalling his own quick adoption, "but it still isn't good for the doctor. It makes it harder for him to make objective decisions, can distract him during a medical emergency, prevent him from giving his full attention to his other cases…"

She sent him a slightly annoyed look.

"The list goes on."

"I'm sure it does. In the long run, however, what the question really comes down to," she stopped walking as they came close to the elevator, Chase walking in front of her and then turning to see her properly, "is whether or not the doctor wants to make things easier for the patient," she stared at him intently, "or easier for himself."

Rob said nothing, feeling chided and, for some unknown reason, guilty. He didn't like letting people down, didn't like being responsible for causing someone else to hurt, but that didn't mean that he should feel bad for it. He wanted nothing meaningful from her, so she should anticipate nothing meaningful from him. If she had some expectations for him that he wasn't fulfilling properly, that was her own fault.

But he couldn't help the sinking sensation of shame he felt for disappointing her, and that worried him.

Sammy clapped her hands together. "But enough of that. I'll pick you up in front of the hospital around ten after five, sound good? You do have some extra money that you can spend, don't you?"

Chase opened his mouth to respond.

"What am I saying? You're a doctor. Of course you have extra money to spend."

He closed his mouth.

"I'll see you then." She made her way to the elevator, squeezing in with some nurses and holding the doors open as they wheeled in a gurney.

Rob was feeling more than a bit flabbergasted. "But what are we doing? And why were you looking for me in the first place?"

"What we're doing is a surprise," she said, smiling back at a nurse who gave her a grateful grin as the gurney was at last pushed into the compartment. "And I was going to ask you if you wanted to do something tonight." She smirked at him. "All in all, a very productive trip."

Her smile was the last thing he saw as the doors to the elevator closed.


	9. So I Can Sew It, pt three

**Drenched**

**Summary**: House enjoys the company of a patient- obviously signaling the apocalypse, Wilson is getting a divorce, Chase is falling head over heels, Foreman's thinking of leaving the team and Cameron's sister has cancer. At least it's not raining. Yet.

**Disclaimer**: I own very few things. My car. A CD or hundred. Some books. Not House. -sadness- House belongs to David Shore and Fox. "It Doesn't Get Much Better Than This" is Nicole Burdette's.

**Author's Note**: Only two days late! Better than a week! Please don't hurt me!

This section has not been looked over. -fear- I'll be sending it to **LastScorpion **later tonight and will update it with corrections if she is willing to grace me with her abilities. -bows before **LastScorpion**-

My medical knowledge is about as useful as a broken shoelace. You can use it if you want to, but it'll come undone a whole lot and no one will take you seriously.

This story is canon-compatible up to "Skin Deep".

Reviews/Reviewers are loved.

Hope this helps tide everyone over until later tonight! -does jig of excitement-

Thank you and enjoy!

**EDIT: **This chapter has now, at long last, been **LastScorpion** approved. -thumbs up- Thank goodness too. I used 'excrete' instead of 'exert' for crying out loud... -shakes head in shame- Anywho, join me in singing her praises! –choir begins to sing praises of **LastScorpion**-

**EDIT NUMBER TWO:** Thanks to the careful observations of **Phoenix Lumen**, Clara's tumor has reduced from five inches, to a far more reasonable five centimeters. Many thanks for pointing out the mistake!

---

**Chapter Six: So I Can Sew It, Part Three**

---

_I want...  
I want so much I'm breathless  
I want to put my power into a poem  
To burn a whole in your pocket  
So I can sew it.  
-Nicole Burdette_

---

Manipulation is an art form, and a risky one at that. Only the most skilled can maneuver its subtleties without being caught, navigate the delicate combination of human reaction, probability and pure logic to control others without inspiring resentment.

Greg, however, was not the sort to give much attention to these feelings of offense. He did not care if those he needed to control didn't like him so long as they did what he felt was rational.

People were stupid. He typically spent most of his days trying to get them to act less so than usual. And while he wasn't praised for these efforts, no one could doubt his intentions.

This wasn't true manipulation.

The idiocy evident in humanity was something that Greg was (nobly) attempting to stifle. He felt that people should recognize this and do as he said.

Sadly, more often than not they wouldn't acknowledge his efforts and he would have to lie (but only when it could not be helped), use brute intimidation, guilt and, on very rare occasions, a hint of compassion to make them see his point. He was never gentle, never subtle. His aims for such acts were clear, his purpose obvious. When House was pulling strings the puppets had complete knowledge of it. They were being tricked, but only as much as they allowed themselves to be, knowing they could yank away their strings at any time.

The true masters of manipulation let their toys believe that they were real boys and girls, unhindered by strings of any sort, much less ones that were being held by others. These hapless fools were unaware of the influence constantly being exerted upon them, the clever and downright sneaky methods that were being used to so casually to direct them. And while Greg could see the beauty in this, from an abstract point of view, once this method was applied to him he had a tendency to become a little touchy.

He did not like being controlled, and the average person was frightened enough by him not to attempt it. This just reaffirmed House's belief that life is made easier by treating people like crap. Fear made people want to leave him alone, and when they actually did, both Greg and the individual were left happier for it. They kept their distance, House could be as sarcastic as he so chose and no one was left feeling slighted.

That is, unless Greg was forced to insult them at some point, whether because of some act of senselessness on their part or simply because he was bored. But this, too, was a community service in his mind. Spines were in short supply amongst the human race and Greg was the equivalent to fertilizer, helping people grow their own.

He really was the self-sacrificing type.

But some persons already had spines firmly intact. And the instant he met such a person and didn't show her his teeth, she was foolishly given to believe that he wasn't dangerous. She had then attempted to use him for her purposes, whatever they might have been. House was not innocent, wasn't sweet and couldn't be expected to sit back idly while someone attempted to maneuver him to suit their own ends.

It was time for the puppy to bite back.

So, he had gone to Wilson's office, rifled through his files and discovered that Clara Samson was in for one last check-up before her surgery the next day. After reading this information, he had promptly left the office, snagging her file as he walked out of the door and began the journey to room 213.

Currently, he neared the room with a frown on his face. The transparent sliding door was ajar and he could hear familiar laughter from within, mixing with the higher chuckles of Wily Cancer Woman.

A deep breath as Clara's laughing halted. "So I'm trying to make a new casserole before the in-laws come, Al's trying to reassure Matt that he hasn't ruined Christmas, Mark's running around the house with the remains of the old casserole on his shirt, looking for his keys so he can go buy more cheese at the grocery store and Sammy's working around me, cleaning up the mess from the spill."

House heard a decidedly Wilson-esque snicker. "This is managing to make my holiday stories seem positively mild. And I'm from a very loud, very large, Jewish family. I'm beyond impressed."

"Oh, that's not the half of it."

"This got worse?"

"Much worse. When the in-laws do show up, only minutes later, I'm still working on the food, half of which is now on me, and Sammy's on the ground between my legs, picking up the last of the old casserole. Of course, they enter and she pops up from between my legs looking triumphant, while I'm all but exhausted above her."

A snort.

"Matt's still crying and Al's starting to panic because she can't calm him down. Mark still hasn't found his keys, so he's storming around, looking furious with the other half of dinner on him. And to top it all, seconds after we reassure the in-laws that their daughter and I are not lesbians, neither Al nor Matt has been abused and that Mark is just frustrated because of his ability to misplace the most common of objects, my brother Will walks in."

A puzzled silence. Cameron had another sibling?

"Oh, right. You haven't met Will, have you?"

"Unfortunately, no."

She eagerly continued. "This was when he had first discovered the biker scene." House could almost see how hard she was trying not to giggle. "His hair was bleach blond and spiked, his entire left arm covered in tattoos, had at least six rings in each ear, one in his nose and one through his lip."

More Wilson laughter.

"They haven't come back to our place for dinner since."

There was more laughter and House rolled his eyes. Time to break up this charming pow-wow. He had a lot to accomplish today and he was not going to be deterred from his busy schedule by doctor-patient bonding.

"Aww, isn't that the sweetest thing you've ever heard?" Greg had opened the door more fully and stepped into the space, seeing Wilson seated happily in the room's sole comfortable chair, leaning forward and grinning. On the bed Clara was grinning just as wide, looking slightly smug at the positive reception of her story. "I particularly liked the lesbian part. When you write your novel, be sure to put special emphasis on that, would you?"

"I will, just for you Greg."

"What brings you here?" Jimmy looked down at his watch. "General Hospital doesn't come on for another hour." He smirked. "Did you miss Clara?"

House scowled. "No."

Wily Cancer Woman brought a hand to her chest. "But Greg, I thought you cared for me? All those sweet nothings whispered into my ear… They were lies?"

"He does lie a lot. Especially to himself." Wilson shook his head sadly at Greg and then turned back to Clara. "Don't worry, he's in denial."

House scowled. "Don't you have more dying people to talk to? You do have more than one patient that needs your emotional sincerity and strength."

"But you only have one patient, right?" Clara asked, eyebrow raised. "Should you really be criticizing?"

"We're not talking about me."

Wilson rolled his eyes. "And he'll criticize anything, whether it's his place or not."

House sighed, becoming impatient. "Hello? Dying people in other rooms. Go forth Saint Jimmy!" House made a shooing gesture towards the hallway. "Heal the sick."

"I'm on my lunch break." Wilson's gaze focused on House's right hand. "What's that file you've got?"

House gave an internal grumble. Wilson knew he wanted to talk to his patient but insisted on being difficult. Fine. Then House would just have to make him leave.

"Lunch, huh?" House leaned back against a clear wall and tried to pull off a wistful look. "A salami sandwich sure would be delectable right now." He rubbed his leg forcefully, ignoring the indent in his thigh as he sighed. "Shame that my leg's being particularly pissy today."

Clara's brow was furrowed, but Wilson was just glaring.

"If only I had my pills this morning."

Still glaring.

"Then I wouldn't be starving."

A glare, but a slightly annoyed one.

"Wasting away."

Definitely irritated now.

"Dwindling to nothing before your very eyes." He threw in an extra rub, adding a wince for dramatic effect.

Wilson flinched with him.

And there was the guilt House had been searching for.

Jimmy sighed, standing up from his seat and sending Clara an apologetic glance. "Sorry to leave you alone with him." He glowered in House's general direction. "His 'feed me' meter is going off."

Clara nodded. "Understood. When the baby cries, it must be looked after." She smirked. "Even if the baby is six feet tall."

House grinned. "Goo goo."

Wilson pointed a finger at him as he reached the door. "Don't harass my patient."

"Me, harass someone? I'm a joy, Jimmy. What on Earth are you talking about?"

Wilson shook his head and rubbed his neck, almost groaning as he left the room.

Cancer Woman sent him a slightly confounded look. "Well we're alone now," she said, raising an eyebrow. "Why did you want us without adult supervision, Greg? Normally I would go with 'make-out session,' but seeing as how you met Mark I somehow doubt it."

House narrowed his eyes and hobbled to the chair Jimmy had just departed, sitting down with a flop as he pulled up the folder to his line of vision and began reading. "Clara Samson-"

"Yes, that would be me."

He was only slightly surprised by the fact that she didn't seemed to be alarmed that he had gotten a hold of her medical file.

"Forty-four years of age." He tilted his head and looked up at her. "Didn't your husband say he was thirty-eight?"

"What can I say? I like 'em young." She raised her brows and made a smacking noise with her lips.

Greg eyed the display with a mild sense of disgust. "The youth are our future, you know."

"They're also limber and ripe for corruption."

"He's good in the sack so you married him. That seems rather shallow, doesn't it?"

"This coming from the man who hired my younger sister because she was like," she frowned slightly and looked to the ceiling, trying to remember something. "Oh yes. 'A piece of art in the lobby'?"

Erp. Well that wasn't good. If she knew the lawyers could know, and if the lawyers knew he might end up paying through his nose...

She smirked, apparently gathering his question from his slightly bewildered expression. "She was very mad a night about six months after she started working for you. I got a call. You're safe. I took the brunt of the rage and convinced her not to sue." She grinned and then let out a small whistle. "The things she called you," she smiled. "I've never been more proud."

Really? Although the woman didn't show it, House had the suspicion that she had a vocabulary so extensive that even the most hardened sailor would turn green with envy when she put it to use. If Cameron had impressed her, her little explosion must have been especially spectacular. "Anything particularly colorful?"

"Plenty. But I'll spare your ego."

"Gee, thanks. Wouldn't want to get all weepy. Didn't bring my cover-up with me today." Internally disappointed that he would never know the extent of Cameron's swearing capabilities, House turned back to the file. "History of breast cancer in your family-"

She nodded, interrupting him. "My grandmother died of it before I was born and my mother passed away from it when I was ten."

"Right." He sent her an annoyed glance and again looked to the papers in front of him. "Unfortunate, but not shocking that you've developed it yourself at a relatively young age." He put the file down and stared at her, Clara returning his gaze steadily. "But there is something about this case that is," he brought a finger to his mouth and adopted an perplexed expression, "off."

"Oh I wonder what it could be?" She grinned, but he saw her fingers clench slightly at the sheet that covered her legs. She was nervous.

"Stage One breast cancer I could understand. Even Stage Two, while odd, wouldn't be unexplainable. But a woman doesn't fail to notice a five centimeter lump on her breast. What's more, a person with a family history of breast cancer as prominent as your own isn't likely to miss the implications of any bump at all. Most women who have had their Mommies kick the bucket due to the disease go into panic attacks if their breasts feel tingly."

She smirked, loosening her hands around the sheet and leaning back into the pile of pillows behind her. "Their husbands must be left terribly unsatisfied a majority of the time."

She was trying to distract him. A shame it wasn't going to work. Especially since his knowledge of breasts was quite extensive.

"You, however, managed to overlook the mass on your," House quickly peeked at the file, "right breast even as it grew bigger. No one with half a brain can mistake a growing lump for anything except a tumor." He threw the file down on the floor, knowing it was useless to him and that he had gathered all of the information he needed from it. "Now, I suppose you could be hiding the signs of your idiocy from me and your skull might be blissfully hollow, proving that you lack both true intelligence and common sense. But, even if this was the case," House gave her a significant glance, "which it is not," she bowed her head graciously at the admission, "there is your husband."

Her brow furrowed and her hands inched towards the sheet once more.

"Admittedly, he doesn't look like he's going to be working for NASA any day soon but he's not completely slack-jawed either. And he's clingy. Even if you failed to notice that lump he wouldn't have. Unless you were hiding it from him."

House noted with glee another small clench of her knuckles.

Everyone had a tell.

Wilson rubbed his neck when he was stressed or worried. With how much that man seemed to mother everything he came in contact with, House was surprised he had any skin left behind his ear. It was a habit bordering on compulsive, providing the only obvious physical indication the oncologist gave towards his mental state. The other, far more subtle, things had taken Greg many years to learn.

Cameron clenched. Crossed her arms over her chest and tensed when she was nervous or apprehensive. Not much could inspire this reaction in the immunologist and he very much doubted she was consciously aware of it when it occurred. So far, only the death of a patient and House himself had caused her to adopt the position.

Chase bit on anything that wouldn't give leave splinters in his gums, but when he was afraid or suppressing a particularly juicy piece of personal information, he moved to his finger nails. During Vogler's reign they were quickly bitten down to the quick. During the months following his father's death, his fingers constantly appeared as if they were on the verge of bleeding.

Foreman's eyebrows went crazy at the slightest provocation, practically disappearing into his hair when he was annoyed at his boss. House almost saw this as a challenge and was still trying to have them flee from his neurologist's face entirely by the end of the man's fellowship. However, when he was angry, Foreman's nostrils flared. The difference between general frustration and actual rage was subtle to most, but vital to House. It let him know when he had pushed his neurologist too far, when Foreman would cease to listen and become ineffective at diagnosing.

Cuddy was a bit harder to pin down. Appearing composed at all times was an important aspect of a job that she loved, and as such she had mastered the ability. There were things, however, that she couldn't control. Whenever overworked, Cuddy would develop painful migraines that caused a small vein in her forehead to pulse repeatedly. Greg liked to count how many jumps it made per minute. The more it made, the worse off Cuddy was.

And Clara Samson, when nervous and cornered, fiddled with her hands.

"The reason you have Stage Three breast cancer is because you were too scared to get the lump checked out when it was still manageable. Wilson's screwing around with radiation and a lumpectomy when he should be removing your breast. You just don't want to let him do it because if he does order a mastectomy, it'll be your own fault. You'll lose that which makes you a woman, and you won't have anyone but yourself to blame."

Her fingers wrapped together, each squeezing another until the twisted mass became tinged slightly red.

"The few months out of the hospital don't really seem like they're worth a breast now, do they? Were you really that afraid of ending up like Mommy dearest?"

An appropriate end to a successful dissection, House thought, feeling almost smug. She nipped him and he bit back, drawing blood and leaving her more than aware of his ability to harm and his complete disregard for her mental well-being.

House was certain that she would not meddle with him again.

And then, shockingly, her grip loosened on her own limbs, she looked up and stared at him squarely. "My turn?"

House was left with nothing to do but blink as she sent him a grin.

"You're trying to make me angry."

"Nope." And he wasn't. He wanted to teach her a lesson. If she got mad in the process, well. That was an amusing perk. "This is just me in my normal state." Also true. He poked and prodded everyone in this fashion. "General Hospital makes me more pleasant." House tapped his cane on the ground repeatedly. "Typically, pissing people off comes naturally to me. A gift, some say."

"No."

House looked up sharply. No? She seemed far too certain for his comfort.

"You're making an effort to be especially malicious. You're not just trying to piss me off for fun." She gave him a penetrating look. "You're doing it to be cruel." She leaned back once more into her pillows and smirked. "Hate to break it to you, but it's not going to work. I'm of a very pleasant temperament."

House rolled his eyes. People always wanted to make these things personal. "I'm not trying to make you mad. I'm simply pointing out some interesting observations. If they upset you, well," he shrugged. "Like I said, a gift."

"I don't think so. You want to get me upset, and not for sheer amusement's sake."

House frowned at her. "I don't know; amusement's a pretty strong motivator."

"You want to punish me for not telling you that I'm Al's sister."

He closed his eyes and shook his head before snapping them open again. Annoying and presumptuous then. "Brilliant deduction. Now if only it was at all based on reality."

He wasn't concerned about her not telling him that she was related to Cameron. He just wanted to make sure that she learned not to attempt to do something similar again.

He wasn't angry. Irritated, but not mad. Anger implied that he cared about the subject beyond his need to satisfy his curiosity. That he was bothered by the fact that she lied to him.

Everyone lied. Soon after people grew teeth they developed the ability to lie through them, no exceptions. That she was no different was no blow, no disappointment.

Although the fact that he hadn't been expecting her to be similar was.

"That's it, isn't it?" She stared at him. "Why did it bother you so much?"

"Maybe it didn't bother me." House glared. "Did you ever consider the possibility that I just like seeing people suffer?"

Another mildly infuriating grin. "People can be jerks, but there's always a reason for it. You obviously want to see me suffer, the question is why. Apparently, I annoyed you at some point."

"Not especially." House searched his pockets and sighed. Forgot to bring the Game Boy. "You lied, which is far from surprising. It is, however, curious." He looked up from his jacket and sent her a puzzled glance. "If you're willing to lie about being related to a member of my team, a relatively insignificant detail to most people, it makes me wonder what else you're willing to lie about. Hence," he gestured to himself, "my presence here."

"I didn't lie. Just left out 'a relatively insignificant detail.'" She gave a sly smile and Greg grumbled. "If you assume that it wouldn't matter to me, why shouldn't I assume that it wouldn't matter to you?"

He quickly adopted a serious tone. "Because it could affect the performance of one of my employees. We're not sorting trash here; it's not all mindless busy-work. If Cameron's not doing her job properly, people can die. When something has the potential to distract her," he shot her a pointed look, "like her darling sister sick with a variation of the illness that killed her husband, I should know about it."

She was silent.

He tilted his head to the side. "That's the reason I should use from now on. I suppose it carries more weight than the whole, 'I like knowing stuff' excuse."

Clara smirked.

What did it take to irritate this woman? Her patience was frustrating.

Oh, the irony.

"And you did lie."

"I didn't lie!"

House grinned. "Omitting a truth is the same as telling a falsehood."

She made an exasperated sound.

Music to House's ears.

"Fine, if it'll make you happy to hear me say it, I lied." Her arms were crossed over her chest, and if she had been standing House was certain she would be tapping her foot. "But if I had told you that I was Al's sister right from the start, can you honestly say that you wouldn't have treated me differently?"

"In no way that would be significant."

She gave a less than dignified snort. "Now who's lying?"

House produced a bewildered look, not entirely for dramatic effect.

"I've heard too much about you, Greg. You would have seen me as nothing more than a way to get to Al and then used me accordingly." She arched a brow at him. "I don't enjoy being a tool with which my loved ones can be hurt."

Greg sighed. Right. Big bad House, out to torment the innocents. Nice, kind cancer lady trying to protect them. "I didn't realize my tendency to emotionally scar everyone I come in contact with was so well published."

"I'm not saying that you would want to hurt her. Just that you would."

"Of course." House leaned forward and lowered his voice, "My subconscious is just dying to lash out, seeing as how I usually keep all my feelings bottled up inside." He nodded repeatedly as he slouched back into the chair.

Clara simply rolled her eyes. "People fascinate you. Why else would you so willingly surround yourself with anomalies?"

"Anomalies?"

"Al, Rob, Jim. I don't know about Eric as I only saw him for a bit yesterday, but those three, who you spend most of your days with, are some of the most interesting characters I've ever come in contact with."

House inclined his head slightly. He wanted people around who could entertain him, keep him occupied. If Greg got to pick his own team and who he associated with, he would be damned if he was going to allow himself to be bored.

"Most, if they were at all interested to begin with, would be frustrated more than anything else by such personalities. But not you. You like figuring out how they work, why they function as they do."

House nodded in an overly enthusiastic manner. "Oh yes. People are just lovely."

"You make a lot of assumptions, don't you?" She sounded mildly irritated, but her lips were upturned. "I'm not saying that you want to have a picnic with these people, or even that you necessarily respect all of them. You enjoy picking them apart and then you like trying to make them act and think in the way you think they should."

House shrugged. "Trying to make people think logically isn't a crime."

"And it wouldn't be a problem if you weren't so careless going about it."

He sighed and smacked himself on the forehead. "I know, I know. I remind myself every night before I drift off to sleep that each soul is delicate and is to be handled with care. I wonder how I manage to forget come each morning?"

Clara still had the fond smile on her face. "Yes well, despite your forgetfulness, you're not entirely without tact."

House opened his mouth to say something insensitive.

"Oh no." Clara held out her hand and House's mouth closed. "You're mostly without tact."

House nodded in satisfaction. His reputation was not to be dirtied by rumors of thoughtfulness.

"But," she held up a finger, "you have displayed an ability to be considerate if you choose to." Her grin widened. "As is made apparent by Jim's exceptionally boyish grin this afternoon."

"You mean my getting him a hooker this morning?" House nodded. "Really wakes a guy up. Thousand times better than coffee."

She laughed. "I meant you letting him drive your car, which he told me about with extreme glee. Remarkable, considering that he's barely been functioning as of late. Especially yesterday. He seemed to disappear halfway through the day and didn't even say goodbye before we left, and that's not like him."

House grumbled and shifted in his seat. "My leg wasn't cooperating anyway, and he gets annoying when he mopes."

"And it made him happy."

House shifted some more.

"Jim is one of the few people that you seem to respect, and as such, that you deem worthy of your consideration. How he gained that respect, I can only guess at."

If the man who saved your career, your life, the one thing that kept you voluntarily breathing each day, your good name and what was left of your self-worth, didn't deserve your respect, then who did?

Clara continued, not waiting for or likely expecting a response.

Smart woman.

"Al, however, hasn't." She gave him a fond scowl. "Most likely through no fault of her own, may I add." Another smile. "But because of this, you wouldn't spare her from your unbridled curiosity. It should come as no surprise to you that I have little desire to help you subject her to it."

House blinked at her.

Clara blinked back.

Greg reached for the file that he threw on the floor, frantically going through sheets of paper.

"I know I'm profound, but my opinions don't generally inspire such frenzied responses. I must have been particularly insightful here." Her lips were turned into a sardonic smile as she viewed his search with amusement.

At last, Greg had found the page he was looking for.

He groaned.

Of course.

"You're a shrink."

Clara grinned proudly. "Yep."

House sent her a look of disgust while resisting the urge to somehow cleanse himself. Perhaps through a trial by fire. He certainly couldn't go on as was; he felt like he had been sullied.

"Don't look at me like that." She crossed her arms and sulked. "I'm not a cannibal."

"You feed on the insides of humans." House tossed the file again. "The definition fits."

House bounced his cane on the floor once more and then looked up sharply.

Everything made much more sense now.

"This is why you didn't tell me. Cameron trying to get you to 'heal' me? Needed to keep your relation covert so that you could go about it in a properly sneaky fashion? Can't be obvious while trying to mold minds to go with the Cuddly Princess's agenda." He scowled at her. "You must deceive people into being stuffed animals, that's the key. Make them want to be made of fluff."

Clara snorted. "Even if you paid me," here she interjected a very significant glance. "And you would have to pay me a whole damn lot. I'm good." House found himself oddly cheered by her complete lack of modesty. If someone is skilled at something and they know it, they shouldn't beat around the bush. Modesty, like many things in life, helped none and annoyed many. "I wouldn't accept you as a patient."

"Why?" Greg did his best to make his eyes water and widened them significantly. "My emotional scars just too deep for you to reach?"

She let out a bark of laughter. "No." She looked at him like a child who needed to have the intricacy of basic addition explained to him. "Because the problems you have you don't want to fix."

House blinked. "That's... different."

Clara shrugged. "I'm not your typical psychologist. If I did the same thing as everyone else, there would be no reason to give me absurd sums of money. And I happen to like these sums of money. They buy me food and satisfy my other numerous fancies."

House smirked.

"With you, Greg, I have no agenda beyond my own entertainment. I'll have fun picking you apart, just because it's what I do, and if you goad me, like now, I'll share my findings with you. But I'm not going to sew you back together again."

"So," House gestured towards her, "it's all right when you tear people apart," he indicated himself, "but when I do the same thing I'm emotionally damaging?"

She made a show of pausing and tilting her head up to the heavens. She then gave a slow nod. "Seems right, yeah."

"And the difference is...?"

She grinned. "I'm careful." She locked his eyes with hers and said nothing for a short time. Then she sighed and sent him a disappointed look. "You, however, lack restraint or delicacy with such matters."

House suppressed an inner groan. "Restraint shouldn't be necessary if the statements are true."

"And it isn't, if you don't care about the reaction of the person you're picking at." She stared at him once more. "Which you don't, and as such your poking has dramatic, negative, effects on the people who are forced to deal with you every day."

House returned the stare levelly. Only three people were forced to deal with him every day. Wilson did it out of choice and Cuddy out of an obligation she could quickly end if she so chose. That left his underlings, and as fond as she seemed to growing of "Rob," House knew there was only person forced to submit to his prodding that Clara truly cared about.

"You're trying to manipulate me."

"Am I?" Clara's eyebrows rose.

"You want me to feel guilty about the way I treat Cameron."

She smiled. "Is it working?"

"No." He leaned back in the chair and rested both hands on top of his cane, focusing his attention fully on the woman in front of him. "But I'm fascinated by your attempts." He smirked. "You are against the way I disregard the precious feelings of my fellow man, but you feel no guilt in exploiting these same emotions to get you want from people." House sucked in air between his teeth, wincing comically. "Quite a conundrum."

Clara sent him a slightly sad smile. "Greg, you more than anybody should know by now that everyone manipulates everyone else. What's important is why they do it and how." An intent stare. "That's how manipulation turns into gentle guidance, mutual exploitation becomes the foundation of the strongest friendships and lies become small blessings. And," she smirked, "according to Allison, it's what you do with every patient that goes through your department, every employee under you, each unfortunate employer and," she gestured out of the room, House turning to see Wilson through the glass walls, chatting with one of the nurses in the hallway with a sandwich firmly in hand, "every friend you have."

She paused, and then amended, "It is also, sadly, the origin of politics."

House shrugged. "Every silver lining has its cloud."

She grinned and there was a silence in which her eyes remained locked on him, observant but not intrusive in their scrutiny. Waiting.

She wanted his reaction, his rebuttal.

He just wasn't sure that he had one.

Fortunately, Greg was spared from responding by the entrance of a tall black woman with features far too hot to be human.

Really. He was getting sunburned.

She halted on the other side of the bed, placing a hand on Wily Cancer Woman's shoulder. "First, Jim says he'll be back in a bit. Apparently a nurse wanted him to check in on a patient. Second, I need to take you home at four, right?"

House peeled his eyes away from the woman to give Clara a mildly offended look. "Why didn't you tell me you had a personal nurse? Please tell me you take complete advantage of her services." House looked back to the woman, who was glaring at him. "And if you don't, give me permission to."

Clara shook her head and turned to the woman, sighing in exasperation. "Sammy, this is Greg House. Al and Rob's boss. Greg," she looked to the diagnostician, "this is my sister-in-law, Sammy."

"So," Sammy removed her hand from Clara's shoulder and eyed House, "that would explain it then."

"Explain what? The cane? My rugged good looks?" House nodded at her, smiling his comprehension. "Cameron does have a tendency to drone on about them. Makes me blush, but she insists."

"No." Her mouth narrowed. "Why you're so obnoxious." She turned to Clara. "Do you mind if I'm not sure I like him?"

Clara smiled and patted Sammy's hand. "Not at all dear. It's completely understandable."

House stared at the young woman, vaguely hoping that he wasn't drooling. This was a good shirt. "I like you."

Clara grinned. "I was given to understand that you didn't like anyone?"

"There are exceptions to every rule."

Sammy smirked. "Should I be flattered?"

House responded with a resounding, "Yes!" while, at the same instant, Clara let out a droll, "No."

Sammy laughed and turned to Clara. "So, time?"

Clara frowned. "At four, but Mark's coming to get me."

"Really?" She looked positively giddy.

"Yep. Matt has a short day at school so he's coming too." She looked up to the clock in the room. "They should get here any minute, actually. Why do you ask?"

The younger woman smiled. "I'm going on a date with Rob tonight. And although I'm sorry that I won't be able to spend time in your lovely company," Clara rolled her eyes and mouthed 'suck up' in Greg's direction, "now I'll have time to make myself presentable."

"Wait." House sat up in his chair and frowned. "You mean Chase? You're going on a date with Chase?"

Sammy looked to him, brow furrowed, and nodded.

"Damn lucky bastard." Chase was going to have an obscene amount of clinic duty to cover.

What's more, Blondie was going to have a lot of explaining to do to Cameron. It explained the look of relief on the intensivists's face earlier in the day. Why he was so happy to note that she didn't mind him spending time with her family, because that meant that she might not mind his dating a member of said family.

House felt a small thrill go through him. Oh, the next few weeks would be fun.

Sammy was smiling. "That he is. Or at least he might be, if I can teach him how to dress like a human being."

"Why do I get the feeling that she's talking about me?" House whipped around to see The Hulk enter the room. He gave a friendly nod in House's direction and stood on Sammy's side of the bed.

Clara smiled. "Not this time. Where's Matt?"

"He wanted something from the cafeteria. He should be up in a few minutes." Mark blinked. "You mean you've finally found someone who dresses worse than I do?"

Sammy nodded sadly. "Rob."

The man shook his head sadly. "Poor sod."

Sammy patted Mark's shoulder. "I'm going to take him shopping tonight."

"He won't survive the night."

His sister promptly hit him on the same shoulder she had been patting a moment earlier.

"All right, since I'm not needed, I'm going." She gave Clara a peck on the cheek and hugged her brother, finally turning to Greg. "It was… Interesting meeting you."

"It was definitely my pleasure."

She shot him a smirk and then left, House resisting the urge to turn and get a look at her ass as she walked out of the room. One does not ogle The Hulk's sister while The Hulk is watching.

It's just stupid.

"Mark," House returned his gaze to Clara as she tugged on her husband's arm. "Reassure Greg that I wasn't some wily Mrs. Robertson out to seduce you."

"No seducing on her part, I'm afraid. She found me irritatingly persistent in my pursuit of her from the outset." He tilted his head and grinned. "Which is a bit odd really, seeing as how I'm such a catch."

She rolled her eyes. "So modest too."

Mark smiled and leaned forward, kissing his wife as Greg turned away and fought the need to shudder at the sap before him.

Make-out sessions (or small pecks. Greg found the both equally unpleasant to witness) were all well and good, but it wasn't exactly suitable for the masses at large. Much better to transfer saliva in the privacy of one's home.

Transfer saliva.

House tilted his head, thinking.

A smile formed on his face as his inner light bulb flickered to life.

Eureka.

House stood up, gripping his cane and quickly limping towards the door.

Clara stopped sucking face and looked up. "Where's the fire?"

"Nursery. Must do the heroic thing and save all of the small children."

"Greg."

House sighed and stopped at the door, turning to face the woman and her husband. "What? Little babies are burning as we speak. Nothing looks cute with its face aflame."

She smiled. "I'm coming back tomorrow for my lumpectomy and I'll have to sit around the whole day after for observation. You want to ditch that clinic and watch General Hospital to help pass the hours?"

House narrowed his eyes. She wanted to know if he would still associate with her. If he was willing to not use her as a method with which to torment Cameron. If he still _liked_ her.

"Fine. But you better bring the Skittles."

He caught her grin out of the corner of his eye as he left the room, running into Jimmy as he reached the hall.

"Here slave-driver." He shoved a package at him. "I got your salami sandwich."

"Yeah, great." House started down the hallway. "Come with me."

"But Clara-"

"Is saying hello to her husband in a very personal fashion after a long day spent apart. You won't be missed." House passed the nurses station and peeked in, finding a garbage can and dropping the sandwich in. He turned around to see Wilson scowling at him.

"Now come on." House began his hobble down the hall, noting with satisfaction the sound of Wilson's sigh and the tap of his shoes on tile as he doggedly trailed after the diagnostician.

House almost felt bad for leading his friend into a confrontation he had been avoiding for, at the very least, eight years.

Almost.

---

"You said he has an ulcer?"

"A history of them, actually."

"And that he's experiencing numbness in his limbs?"

"Yes."

"It's a spinal abscess. Hook him up to an IV drip and monitor his progress. He should be better by morning. Anything else?"

"No." Doctor Rustle flipped on a light switch, looking at Foreman with a mildly shocked expression. "You went through every puzzling case brought to the neurological department."

"Yeah," Eric laughed bitterly as he pulled away from the MRI, stretching slightly in his chair. "It only took three hours."

Doctor Rustle was the head of the neurological department. An older man with graying hair, sharp gray eyes and a personality that went from sunny to thunderous at the drop of a hat, he had asked Foreman for his help after a new surge of cases had shown up in neurology, saying that his team couldn't handle the sudden increase in patients. Foreman had eagerly agreed. Their one patient in diagnostics was stable, the clinic was covered and Foreman hated feeling as if he wasn't being useful.

"Well," Doctor Rustle smiled, "the time it took is more than understandable, considering that these are all of the challenging cases we've had in the past five months."

Foreman stopped stretching and abruptly sat up, brow furrowed. "What?"

"I've been watching you." The man shrugged and leaned against a counter of the lab. "A few weeks ago Doctor Cuddy let it slip in a meeting that you were the most promising doctor to come to PPTH in the past ten years. The Dean doesn't give out praise easily; I wanted to see for myself if you were as good as she thinks you are."

"So, you got the records for the cases you've had in the past few months and asked for consults." Foreman shook his head in disgust and headed for the door. "Some back-up in the department. Unbelievable."

"Doctor Foreman!"

Foreman halted his progress towards and turned around, scowling at the older man. "You can't just play these sorts of games with me and then expect me to laugh it off. I am a doctor, not a lap-dog to perform for you."

What did it take to get respect in this hospital? What did he have to do to be taken seriously? Antagonize everyone like House? No one liked the man but everyone respected his medical opinion, and he made certain that the time he did spend on work was spent on cases that deserved his attention, not mindless quizzes from aging doctors.

"Foreman, calm down." Rustle held out his arms in a calming gesture. "Why do you think I did this?"

"Right now, it seems like you wanted to waste my time."

The older man snorted. "As opposed to what? Sitting around in diagnostics while your skill goes unnoticed?"

Foreman said nothing, forcing himself regain his temper and listen to the man.

"I didn't do this to waste your time." Rustle sent Foreman a significant glance. "I did it to test your ability."

"Why?" Foreman crossed his arms over his chest and shrugged. "I'm not in your department. My ability shouldn't be a concern to you."

"Then let's change that."

Foreman raised an eyebrow. "What are you proposing?"

"I plan on retiring within the next two years, you're aware of this?"

He nodded. "I've heard rumors."

"The department is fine as it stands. We have good doctors working for us with solid records and of adequate ability." Rustle smiled at Foreman. "But they aren't great."

Foreman shifted his feet. It was true. If a patient had a serious neurological problem they did not, as a rule, come to Princeton-Plainsboro. The department lacked the resources, prestige and credibility of others at the hospital. This did not mean that the department wasn't sufficient. It just wasn't excellent.

"None of my doctors could solve any of the cases that you just went through and diagnosed, correctly, in less than a day of debate. They're good people, good doctors, but they're uncertain. If no one made decisions for them, they would be content to watch patients die."

Foreman grinned, understanding dawning on him. "And you can't leave the department in incapable hands, in worse condition than when you arrived at it." Even when a doctor's career had ended, his reputation was still susceptible to damage. And reputation was important if one wished to publish work after retirement.

"No." Rustle forced a smile. "I can't. Which is why I'm here now. You made good decisions for every single case you saw, your directives for treatment and further testing were intelligent and sufficient and your diagnostic abilities are excellent." He mimicked Foreman's stance. "Frankly, Doctor Foreman, I want you in my department. It needs a doctor like you to survive once I'm gone."

Foreman narrowed his eyes at the man. "I have a year left to my fellowship."

"House would let you go."

Foreman inclined his head. His boss had done it before. Nothing should stop him from doing it again. "What's in this for me?"

"Are you serious?" Rustle had an insulted look on his face. "You know your skill isn't put to use under House! You spend most of your time waiting for cases to show up; if you're lucky you treat one person per week and you aren't given any respect or ability to expand your knowledge in any useful way." He stared at the younger doctor intently. "You're a neurologist, Foreman. Why should you care about obscure African diseases that have nothing to do with your specialty?" He snorted. "And then, when you do have a case, you spend just as much time out of the hospital as in it." Another strained stare. "You are not being utilized, aren't given any opportunity to raise your position." He let out a bark of laughter. "You're in a black hole. You've gotten sucked into it by the promise of working with House and now that you're there you've discovered that it can offer you nothing. Getting away from that, not to mention House, should be an award enough on its own."

It would be. Not that Rustle needed to be made aware of that. "Yes, well. I've learned to tolerate the man. You need me. I certainly don't need you. An absence of House is not enough to tempt me to give up the security of my current situation. And you know that. What are you willing to offer me?"

The older doctor smirked. "My position. Head of Neurology. If you accept and join my team, it's yours once I leave."

And Foreman had reached the jackpot. "Do you even have the authority to make such a guarantee?"

Rustle raised his eyebrow. "I've been working in this hospital for over twenty years. Cuddy respects my decision and has granted me the right to hand-pick my replacement. I want it to be you."

Even if he was doing cartwheels in his head, Foreman remained stoic. "I need to think about it."

The man shook his head and gave Foreman an annoyed glance. "Don't think for too long. I've got a score of other doctors lined up from other hospitals who would gladly give up their jobs for this opportunity."

"But you don't want them. You want me. And I need time to consider my options."

Another smirk. "How long?"

"Four months."

"That's outrageous!"

"No, it's perfectly reasonable. I'll be passing up a specialty in diagnostic medicine in order to pursue this deal of yours, not to mention missing out on better offers at more prestigious hospitals with more prominent neurological departments."

And it was true. Foreman needed time to process the offer, to weigh the pros and cons. Although it was hard for him to imagine now, leaving Diagnostics could be a mistake. He needed to take that into account and make sure that if he did leave House's department, it would be a clean break with no regrets.

"You still don't need one hundred and twenty days to make this decision."

"Yes, I do." Foreman grinned. "Because, unlike the score of other doctors you have lined up, I am not desperate." He gave Doctor Rustle a hard look. "I'll have my answer for you in four months."

Rustle glared. "Fine, four months. But after that, the offer's gone forever. Understood?"

Foreman smiled. "Yes, Doctor."

The Head of Neurology scowled. "Don't push me," he snarled. "You're good, Foreman, but there are other brilliant young neurologists in the country who will accept this offer as soon as I give it to them. Don't think I won't hand it to someone else."

Foreman continued to grin. "As long as you don't think that I won't turn you down."

He left the lab with the Head of Neurology still gaping at him.

Eric wasn't a moron. He knew how foolish it would be to give up an opportunity like the one that had just presented itself. The respect he wanted from the medical community would be easier to attain if he could boast the title of Department Head. What's more, he could restructure the department once Rustle left, make it more innovative. Not simply treat illnesses, but create advances to prevent them from occurring in the first place. The possibilities were endless.

But he also knew that if he accepted the offer, his education would cease. Foreman knew all he needed to in order to excel in neurology. Any more knowledge he gained would be extraneous, taking up space in a brain that didn't need the information. What's more, the challenge that he thrived off of, the constant need to improve himself, would diminish. Yes, there would be a challenging case on occasion, but for the most part, he would be bored. Bored, but useful on a far larger scale than the one he was operating on currently.

He needed time to think about this.

He had reached the elevator and was doing his best to conceal the satisfied smile on his face (House could read people far too easily, and Foreman wanted to keep this particular occurrence to himself for a time) when someone called his name.

Turning from the doors, Foreman looked around frantically.

"Doctor Foreman?"

Eric glanced down to see a short boy in front of him.

"Matt?"

"I need to talk to you."

"Matt," Foreman gently grabbed the boy's shoulder and moved away from the elevators, "what are you doing here? Is your mom back in? Does she know that you're running around the hospital alone?"

"Stop." He swatted away Foreman's hand and scowled. "I didn't come looking for you so that you could baby me."

"All right." Foreman crossed his arms and stared at the eleven year-old. "What do you want?"

The boy returned the stare with a surprising seriousness. "I want to know what's happening to my mother."

Foreman resisted the urge to sigh loudly. "I don't think I'm the right person to tell you that, Matt."

"You are."

Eric blinked.

Matt sighed. "My mom," he looked down at his shoes. "She likes to pretend that nothing's wrong. She won't even talk about how she's sick when we get home. We'll talk about how school is going, the new building Dad's working on, what we'll have for dinner." He looked up. "But nothing about her being sick. She won't tell me about it, she won't even really tell Dad. When we do mention it she barely answers our questions and is quiet until we start a conversation about something else." He shuffled his feet. "And Dad doesn't think that I can understand it. Doesn't think I'm old enough."

Of course he didn't. What would a kid know, about death and dying? What father would want to explain that it was happening to his wife to a son so young? "What about your aunt?" Cameron could tell him. She was family.

"Aunt Al is too busy and would tell my parents if I asked her. And they don't want me to know what's going on. And Aunty Sam doesn't know much. Says that she doesn't want to know, that it'll just make her nervous and anxious."

Foreman scratched behind an ear. "There has to be someone else more appropriate-"

"You're smart and a doctor. You know what's happening." He stared at the neurologist. "You're appropriate and you can tell me."

"Matt, just because I can tell you doesn't mean I should. Your mother is a patient-"

"She's not your patient."

Foreman sighed.

"Look, Doctor Foreman," Matt's expression became far more stern than any boy's should have to be. "I wouldn't ask normally, but I keep trying to look things up and the information is always different depending on where I find it from. I don't know if she's going to die in a few days or if she'll be fine. And I need to know," he stared Foreman directly in the eye, "I have to know, what's happening to her."

With another sigh Foreman gestured the boy towards a group of chairs situated a few feet from the elevators, setting Matt in one and then sitting down in another, turning his full attention to the boy. "Matt, even if you do know what's happening to her that doesn't mean that you're going to be able to do anything to help her, medically. Knowing won't change anything, it'll just worry you."

"I know that." He glared. "I'm not stupid. I'm just an eleven-year-old kid, I can't cure cancer." Matt looked to the floor, looking as if he was searching for words. "Haven't you ever just needed to know something? It may not help, may not do anything at all, you just know. And it..." He stopped, losing whatever he had meant to say.

Eric rubbed his head lightly, letting out a small breath of air. "It makes you feel less helpless."

Matt glanced up and smiled. "Yeah."

When Eric was twelve his ten year-old brother had been shot. He had been walking home from school, gotten in the way of a bullet aimed for a member of a rival gang, and been shot in the head.

For weeks Michael Foreman had hovered between life and death, Eric's parents spending every waking moment near their dying son, holding his hand, praying, cursing the city they lived in and the violence that surrounded them.

Eric, after the first day of seeing his brother's unnaturally pallid skin, the blood-soaked bandage wrapped around his head, had gone to the library. The woman who his parents had asked to watch him was old and senile and could never tell when Eric would slip out of the house. So, Eric did so frequently, surrounding himself with medical books and swimming in information.

Uncertainty frightened him. The idea that his brother could leave was troubling enough, but the fact that he didn't have a reason as to why was worse. Mike would just be gone. No explanation. The bullet wasn't meant for him, that wasn't why. He hadn't made anyone angry, that wasn't the reason. Eric's parents weren't mad at Mike, that wasn't why. His perfectly good brother would die and it would be meaningless.

So Eric had searched for reasons. Poured through medical texts far too advanced for him and that he didn't understand, searching for explanations as to why his brother could stop breathing. The knowledge of temporal lobes and hemispheres of the brain soaked through him, calming him. It didn't make the situation better, couldn't help Eric help his brother. But if Mike did leave, at least Eric would know why. And knowing eliminated uncertainty. Knowing helped Eric help himself.

Mike had gotten better, had turned sixteen and joined the same gang that shot him six years before, and Eric had never lost his appreciation for knowledge. Knowing had helped Eric get into college for virtually no cost. Knowing had gotten Eric into med school. And knowing kept him from uncertainty, from fear.

Foreman looked down to Matt, who was looking at him with a painfully hopeful expression.

Foreman sighed. Cameron had said Clara was having surgery. Best to start there.

"Do you know what a lumpectomy is?"

---

Wilson had just spent twenty minutes in a line to get a sandwich. Not even a good sandwich. Who liked salami anyway? And the ones from the cafeteria were exceptionally bad, seeing as how the meat was always stuffed into a freezer and then taken out mere minutes before the order was made.

So why had Wilson done it? Because he was an idiot, that's why. An idiot who had forgotten to give Greg his pain medication and felt uncontrollably guilty for it. And to top it off, once he had given his friend said sandwich, House had promptly thrown it away.

Bastard.

Now, to add to the stupidity, Wilson was obediently following the madman through the halls of the hospital. To where? Who knew. Probably to ruin, disaster and the home of the devil; places House frequented in order to gather new ideas with which to torture his fellow man. Specifically, Wilson.

"Why am I your friend again?"

"Because having a cripple is the only thing more adorable than having a baby. I'm a chick magnet."

"Right. Explaining why they flock to you."

House nodded and slowed as they reached another room, beginning to open the door. "Well they certainly flock away from you. Or at least this particular one did. Time to see if she'll be more accepting with my presence."

"Sara?" Perfect. "House, I was going to talk to her later today. It's not appropriate for me to be here now."

"See, you say you're going to talk to her later, but the longer you wait the less likely you'll be to actually go through with it. Because if left up to you, Jimmy, it would never be appropriate for you to so much as look at her much less have a conversation with the woman. And you have to speak with her." House grumbled. "Your uncontrollable guilt is only acceptable when I can exploit it properly. This is just annoying." He grinned obnoxiously. "Which is why I'm here." Before Wilson could stop him House slid opened the door to the room, hobbling in with a smile.

Now was not the time for this meeting. It would happen; when Wilson made a promise, even a drunken one, it was kept. But he wasn't ready now, didn't know what to say. And she was with her husband. He had no right to intrude here, when she was worried and her partner was sick. This was an intimate setting that Wilson had been excluded from long ago. To break that unspoken law, interrupt her personal life and force himself into it once more... That would be insulting in the most profound sense.

Wilson would speak to her, but not now. Not when she was still concerned for her husband's life and when he would be reminded of the world he had given up.

Not that House would acknowledge or care about any of this. Wilson had best leave now, while he still could.

"Come on, Jimmy. Can't keep the nice couple waiting."

Too late.

With a sigh, Wilson stepped into the room, bracing himself.

Pratt was fully clothed and laying on the bed, grinning at his wife who was sitting in a nearby chair. Upon their entering both stared up at the doctors, Sara's eyes widening briefly upon seeing Wilson.

"Hi, love birds."

Pratt inclined his head. "Doctor House." He smiled. "Have you discovered something else idiotic that I've done that could explain the second attack? As lovely as your hospital is, I rather miss my home."

"Nothing more idiotic from you than what we've already covered."

"That's a mild relief."

"However, marriage is a partnership." House sent Sara a significant look. "You really do share everything, including moronic tendencies."

She looked up at the man. "I don't understand."

"Did you eat the candy?"

Sara gave the doctor a puzzled look. "Yes."

"Did you have any shortly before your husband's second attack?"

"I had a piece when I got home. He had the episode about five minutes later."

House nodded in satisfaction, hobbling to the side of the bed while Wilson leaned against the doorframe to the room, hoping his presence could be forgotten if he made himself as unobtrusive as possible.

"Good. Now, for the important part." House looked from Pratt to Sara. "What were you two doing before he had the attack?"

Pratt's cheeks instantly turned red while Sara sent Wilson a sidelong glance.

"Loverboy doesn't care what it was." House snapped at her, bringing her attention back to him.

Wilson glared at House, shifted uncomfortably and brought his hand to his neck. He nervously turned his eyes to Pratt, but the man seemed unaffected by the statement, simply staring at House. Sara, however, looked moderately mortified.

"If you don't tell me your husband is stuck here until we can find an allergen that doesn't exist. What were you doing?"

"Why does it matter?" Pratt asked. "It doesn't have any medical relevance."

"Who's the doctor here, Computer Boy?" Pratt's mouth promptly shut. "Someone tell me or you'll both be stuck here until you're old and graying, wasting my time and yours."

There was silence.

House sighed. "Fine, I'll spell it out for you." He turned to Sara. "Did you have your tongue down his throat?"

Wilson's eyebrows shot up.

Sara glanced from House to Wilson, then back again. She mumbled something.

"What was that?" House leaned forward, cupping his ear. "Didn't quite catch it."

Sara lowered her head and let out a very small, "Yes."

"See, Jimmy?" House said, turning to Wilson and smiling smugly. "I must never doubt myself. It was the peanut and people are idiots." He let out a satisfied sigh. "The universe makes sense once more."

"I don't see how kissing my wife has anything to do with-"

"The peanut extract in the candy could have easily left remnants in your wife's mouth for several hours. These extracts then could easily be transported through your lovely saliva exchange. Case solved."

House gave the couple a disapproving look. "This is the problem with being so prudish. Had you two been honest about the circumstances surrounding the attacks we probably could have gotten you out of here much faster." He snapped his fingers. "Shucks. At least we know for next time." He brought his gaze to Pratt. "Now go home. I want a real patient, not a checkbook."

Pratt blinked. "I'm discharged?"

House nodded. "Yep. Now leave." House tilted his head. "Actually, don't leave. Come with me." House moved towards a window facing the front of the hospital and pointed. "See that?"

Pratt slowly got out of the bed, glancing down once he reached the window. "Are those all reporters?"

"Yeah. They've been here all morning because of you and Cuddy has been doing her best to keep them out of the hospital. They think that we're secretly poisoning you or covering up our bad facilities because of keeping the cameras out. Apparently, they haven't heard that annoying people with microphones and obnoxious questions isn't conducive to the healing process."

"I should go talk to them…"

"My thoughts exactly." House spun on his heel and started out of the room, throwing Pratt a look over his shoulder as he got to the hallway. "Are you coming?"

"Oh, right." Pratt walked over to his wife and kissed her on the cheek. "I'll be back in moment."

"Okay," Sara smiled up at him as he rapidly followed House.

And then, the room was left feeling far too small, with Jimmy in one corner and Sara in another. Having so much to say, but not wanting to say it.

"I didn't mean to intrude." Wilson gestured out of the door. "House, he asked me to come with him and I didn't know-"

Sara shook her head and held up a hand. "It's all right. He isn't your patient. You couldn't have known."

Another tense silence.

"Julie, my..." He fumbled for a description to what Julie was to him. His other ex-wife? Latest ex-wife? Substitution for her?

Wilson rubbed his neck and charged on. It didn't matter. "She goes to functions, parties, for work. I used to go with her, but never saw you." Pause. "Saw your husband, of course."

Another rub.

"I didn't start to go to them until a while ago. I do now." She looked down at her hands, staring at her short finger nails.

Wilson looked down at his leather shoes.

"I've met Julie." Wilson looked up, seeing Sara giving him an earnest glance. "I didn't know that she was your…" She trailed off. "Well, 'Wilson' is a very common last name. It didn't occur to me to think that…"

That he could somehow worm himself into her life again?

"You haven't been going to the functions recently? I'm sure I would have noticed if you had been at one."

"No, not recently. Not for the past two years, actually." James had stopped attending when he realized that Julie had stopped caring.

"Oh, well. I've been going for the past year or so."

"Right. Well, that's explained then."

"Yes."

Jimmy wished that the silence could say everything that he wanted to. That in the quiet the words would simply materialize between them, spanning the distance he had created and bridging it, if only for a few moments. Just so she could know how deep his regret was. How she had become the greatest wrong he had ever committed. The mistake that haunted him in each potential kiss and every clasped hand, whose memory he couldn't recall for fear of losing the ability to wake up each morning without a self-distain that would prevent him from moving, much less living.

How much easier it all would be if the silence could speak his words for him.

Sara stood up from her chair. "I think I'm going to go check on John now." She looked towards the door and Jimmy moved away from it, leaving her room to exit without touching him. "He doesn't do well with reporters. Excuse me."

No, she couldn't leave. Not yet. Not before he had said the things he had needed to say, before she could say the things she needed to say. That he needed her to say. To forgive or damn him, curse him or bless him. Anything, so long as he could know what she felt. So long as she could know what he felt. He couldn't let her leave before they had said the things that needed to be said, not again.

"I'm sorry."

She stopped with the door open, one foot out of the room.

"I know that it's not enough, that apologizing doesn't erase what I did and that it's coming ten years too late. But I am sorry." He watched her back, saw her take another breath of air. "I never wanted to hurt you."

"Yes, well." She turned around, let the door close behind her. "You did."

Jimmy sighed, grasping his neck. "I know."

She smiled bitterly. "I... I tried very hard not to love you, Jimmy." She stared at him levelly. "I didn't want to. I wasn't the kind of girl that boys like you pursued. Not pretty enough, not charming enough, not social enough. I knew that I wasn't what you really wanted."

He remained mute. Didn't try to prove her wrong, tell her how perfect she was.

"But you..." She sighed and grinned fondly at him. "You made it so difficult to believe it sometimes. You made me think that I was beautiful. That I had some appealing charisma that I was unaware of. You convinced me that you loved me. Then I convinced myself you did, and then I loved you too. And for a while, we were happy."

Jimmy smiled, remembering for the first time in years. They had been happy. Deliriously so.

"But then you had the affair." The words cut through his memories like a dull knife. "And I couldn't believe the things that you had made me think. If you had really loved me, you wouldn't have done it. If I was really as pretty and charming and charismatic as you fooled both of us into thinking I was," she stared at him intently, "you wouldn't have needed to."

"It wasn't you, Sara." He couldn't stop himself. "Never think that you are at all at fault for what I did. You were, are, perfect."

Another bitter upturn of her lips. "Not perfect enough, it seems."

They looked at one another, Jimmy sizing up her small frame, taking in the pain and hurt that seemed to radiate from her, just as raw as it had been ten years ago, just as fresh. Just as real.

And he was just as guilty now as he had been then.

"I never meant to make you feel that way."

"Of course you didn't Jimmy." She smirked, the smile causing crinkles that hadn't been there ten years ago to form around her eyes. "It's not in you, to intentionally harm someone else."

"But intent doesn't change the results." He sighed, looking again to his shoes. "I know I don't deserve your forgiveness, it would be foolish and insulting for me to ask for it." He looked up at her, tried to infuse his sincerity in his gaze, prove how regretful he was through his tone. "I just wanted you to know that I'm not proud of what I did, and that if I could go back and change things-"

"You can't, and if you could I wouldn't want you to."

Jimmy faltered. "But, if I hadn't... We could still be-"

A true smile overtook her features and he felt glad for having caused it. "You still can't accept that a woman wouldn't want you."

He raised his eyebrow, puzzled.

Her grin widened. "And are so earnest in your confusion it makes it impossible to be properly upset at your unconscious arrogance."

She walked further into the room, heading towards the window.

"Jimmy, you had to convince me to love you. Had to convince me that you loved me, that you wanted me." She turned to him, staring at him sadly. "Love's not supposed to need convincing."

Jimmy watched as she gazed out the window, saw her fond expression as she pinpointed a person in the crowd. Observed how her face gentled in a way that it had never done while looking at him.

He sat down in the chair she had vacated, feeling as if he couldn't stand on his own.

"I met him before he was rich, you know. It was at a cafe, about three months after I left." She smiled again, looking back at him. "He asked me if Nutella had peanuts in it." A light laugh. "Fitting, given current circumstances. I told him about the peanut oil and then we had lunch together. And again the next day. And the day after that. For six months, five days a week, without fail, we met at that cafe and ate."

She leaned against the window sill, grinning like a girl with a long and deep-seated crush that was finally being realized.

"It happened naturally, wasn't forced. After six months of cafe lunches he asked me out on a date, and as soon as the night was through I knew I loved him. And I knew he loved me." She looked at Jimmy. "Didn't believe he loved me, or thought that he did. I knew." She gave a small sigh. "But despite knowing that we loved each other, it took me eight years to say 'yes' to his proposals because of you. Because even though I loved him, I didn't think I could trust him."

Jimmy's hand was latched to his neck, kneading his skin. "I've taken far more from you than any person has a right to, and done it for far too long." He had managed to taint her happiness for ten years, kept her from trusting a man, one that was likely ten times better than him, who she loved far more than she had ever loved Jimmy, and made her believe, however briefly, that she was anything less than perfect.

"You're giving yourself too much credit." Sara gave a crooked grin, pushed herself off from the window and came closer. "It's been a long time, but in spite of your mistakes I have no doubt that you are still a good man."

She stopped in front of him, looking down at his sitting form. "I'm happy, Jimmy. Content beyond my wildest imaginings. And yes," she held up a hand to stop the protest that had been forming on his lips. "What you did hurt me deeply for a very long time, but I've gotten past it and moved on. I love my husband with more passion than I thought myself capable of, have a job that I am dedicated to and gives me purpose all while living in comfort that, while far too lavish for my tastes, leaves me wanting nothing.

"I forgive you for what you did, Jimmy, because it brought me to him. And he has led me to the life that I've always dreamed of, but never dared hope for."

Her expression became stern. "Your self-inflicted punishment has gone on long enough. Errors are to be learnt from, not dwelled upon." A gentle smile. "It's time for you to forgive yourself."

He looked down. "You are far more kind to me than I deserve." And she was. He hadn't earned the right to be pardoned. The fact that she had found her husband due to what he had done was a happy accident, having nothing to do with him. He had done nothing to repent, nothing to make it better. He had hurt her, and for no reason but to satisfy a momentary itch. Because the tall woman with the red hair and sad eyes had made him feel funny. Good. And he, selfishly, hadn't wanted to let that feeling go.

She inclined her head, looking at him steadily. "Maybe. But this is something for me to judge, not you." She came closer to him. "You're forgiven Jimmy."

He felt the subtle and gentle pressure of lips on his forehead, causing him to raise his head as Sara made her way to the door, moving with an unconscious grace that left him spellbound.

"Goodbye Jimmy. Move on and try to be happy. I know I have."

And then she was gone.

After four years, six months and thirteen days of pursuing her, two years, ten months and twenty-three days of marriage and over sixteen years of loving the idea of her, she was gone.

And Jimmy forgave himself for the first time after nine years, eight months and five days of regret.

---

Cameron had just finished Pratt's blood-work, all of which had come back negative for anything that could explain his episodes.

Although she had been expecting it, she found herself mildly disappointed by the results.

She needed to prove House wrong. About something, anything. Even if it was completely illogical and made no sense, she had to do it. She was playing into his hand at every turn, justifying everything he had ever told her, and it was driving her mad.

She no longer trusted him. He had attempted to make her abandon this trust from the outset. Doing so was a mistake, he had said. She just didn't know that she had believed him until now. Medically, she believed every word he said, trusted his judgment implicitly. But beyond the medical realm, there were limits to her trust. He could crush her all he wished, she almost welcomed it, in her foolish desire for him to notice her. But she wanted him no where near her loved ones, wanted him far away from anything precious to her.

And Wilson. She had wanted to help him, to make it better because he had been unhappy, overwhelmed by his burdens. Because, even if the oncologist wouldn't admit it, he had needed help. Needed her.

And because of that, that sick and perverse need that drew her to men like a moth to a flame, she had enjoyed his drunken company far too much. Why she had spent much more time looking in his eyes than she had looking for signs of fever. Why she had to force herself from shuddering with his body pressed against hers, and not because of his damp clothes.

She didn't want Wilson, not really. She wanted the idea that he needed her, however briefly. Why else would her interest flare up now, after nearly three years of working together? What other explanation was there for how she felt?

Because, for the first time in two years, when she stood next to her boss her stomach lacked the flutter that had been her constant, frustrating, companion while near him. House didn't need her now, with his addiction staved and his emotional status constant, if no more pleasant. And since he didn't need her, she didn't want him.

The whole thought process was maddening because it meant that House had been right. About her, about himself. She had liked to believe that she was more than a masochistic fool, that he was trustworthy, that he had come to his own conclusions based on what he wanted to believe.

But, as was quickly becoming apparent, perhaps they weren't what House wanted to believe. Maybe they were truths that Cameron had refused to accept.

She needed reassurance, someone to tell her she wasn't insane, not this creature who fed off of damaged things.

She needed Clara.

Luckily, her sister was easily accessible.

The blinds were closed to room 213, but Cameron could hear voices through the open door.

"You just missed Mark."

"Did I? I'm sorry."

Cameron stopped in her tracks. Wilson was there?

What was she thinking? Of course Wilson was there. He was Clara's doctor, an oncologist seeing his patient.

"It's all right. He's off locating our child but he should be back soon."

"Hopefully I'll be able to catch him then before you guys leave."

There was a pause and the sound of a body sinking into a chair. "You, Jim, for some unknown reason, look better. Even better than you did earlier today because of that car ride."

"I feel better."

Or maybe not a doctor seeing his patient, but rather his friend.

Why was Cameron internally pleased by this?

"Is getting a sandwich for Greg that refreshing?"

She could hear the grin in his voice. "Sadly, no. That's just annoying."

"Then what's caused this turn-around?"

There was a long silence.

Cameron knew she should go into the room now, before she heard something that wasn't intended for her.

But she wanted to know his answer.

"Letting go."

And now, she decided, would most definitely be the opportune time to enter the room.

Cameron stepped through the door and gave a small wave to Clara who was happily perched in bed. Wilson was seated in a chair to the left of her, sipping at a coffee clenched tightly in his hand like a life-line. He smiled at her and mouthed, "Apple wore off," as he took another drink.

Allison turned to her sister who was staring at her intently. "Your boss has the maturity of a seventeen year-old."

Wilson snorted into his coffee.

Clara raised an eyebrow at him. "What? Is it not true?"

"No," Wilson gasped for air. "It's entirely accurate."

Cameron grinned. "Hello darling sister."

"Hello dear." She gestured to the oncologist. "Doesn't Jim look better than usual?"

Noting Wilson's confounded expression, she gave an instant reply. "I do believe he does." She grinned at his eye roll. Friendly teasing was the way her family expressed affection. Around her sister, the impulse to partake in such fun came back to Cameron with a vengeance.

Not that she wanted to express affection to Wilson.

She gave an internal sigh and continued on with her prodding. "Jim, you must tell us your secret."

"Well," he smirked and leaned forward in his seat, staring at her earnestly. "It was a combination of the trickery from the world's most irritating diagnostician and following the advice of a very talented immunologist."

He must have spoken with Sara then. Apparently, it had gone well.

"One must wonder how talented, exactly?" Cameron fluttered her eyelashes and suppressed the need to snicker.

Wilson caught on quickly. "Extremely, obviously." He nodded graciously towards Cameron. "I don't believe I've met her equal."

Clara leaned closer to Allison. "He is _very _good at flattery." She turned her attention back to Wilson. "Jim, you're coming to dinner one night. You'll have to lavish us with praise and show Sammy how sucking-up is done properly."

"How can I refute such a well intended request?"

Cameron smiled. "Stop." She gestured towards Clara, who was looking far too pleased. "You're giving her ideas."

Wilson returned the grin. "But what kind of ideas?" He glanced at Clara.

Cameron smirked. "Inappropriate ones."

Wilson's eyebrows rose.

"Shush Al." Clara hit her lightly on the shoulder. "I just like my compliments." She turned to Wilson. "Don't listen to her. Al's simply bitter because you've turned your charms to me." She winked.

The oncologist laughed. "Well, if Al would join me outside for a moment, I could sing her my praises a bit more privately?" He looked to Cameron hopefully.

Clara sighed dramatically. "Why does Al always get the quickie offers?"

Wilson's cheeks became noticeably redder but Cameron simply rolled her eyes. "I'll be back in a moment, Clara."

"Yeah yeah." She waved them out of the room, smiling. "Make sure you pull your skirt back down when you guys are through."

Wilson couldn't quite repress a small chuckle as they stepped outside of the room, Cameron pointedly closing the door behind them.

"Your sister-"

"Is insane."

Wilson grinned. "I was going to say charming, but that too." He looked back to the room they had just left, giving it a fond glance. "She and House make quite a pair." He brought his gaze up to hers. "I think he actually likes her."

Allison snorted. "Right."

"No, really."

Cameron blinked. Wilson knew House better than most. If he thought that the man enjoyed Clara's company, it could very well be true.

And that would be… unexpected.

She filed away that information to ponder at a later date.

Wilson shook himself, smiling at her. "But, getting to why I asked you out here so that you can return to your sister." He took in a breath. "Cameron, I just wanted to thank you and to apologize for imposing on you last night." He paused. "And also, to apologize for anything I might have done that was the least bit insulting." He gave a sheepish smile. "I haven't been that drunk in a very long time, so the details are a bit hazy."

"No, please don't apologize." She sent him a disbelieving look. "You didn't do anything wrong. I should be sorry for all but forcing myself on you."

Wilson's eyes widened. "Forcing yourself on me?"

Before Allison could properly respond something small flung itself at her. "Aunt Al!"

She grinned and looked down at Matt, who was tightly clenching her waist. "Hey squirt."

He looked up at her. "Hi." He turned to Wilson, who was doing his best to cover his smile with a hand. "Hi Jim."

"Hey Matt."

Mark walked up from down the hall, looking from Wilson to Cameron with a slightly apprehensive expression on his face. He had likely caught the tail-end of the conversation.

He was probably petrified by the prospect of Cameron forcing herself on his wife's doctor.

Allison prepared herself for the mocking she would be faced with at the next family gathering.

"Erm," He grabbed one of his son's arms and tugged gently. "Let's go Matt. We can talk to Al and Jim later."

Matt nodded. "Okay." He looked up hopefully at Cameron. "You'll talk before you go back to work?"

Allison smiled. "Of course. Like I would skip an opportunity to hang with you?"

Matt grinned and Mark rolled his eyes, guiding his son into the room before turning to his sister-in-law. "You really shouldn't encourage him, you know. He already worships you."

Cameron grinned and Mark disappeared behind the blinds as the door slid closed.

She then promptly turned her attention back to Wilson. "Yes, forced myself on."

Wilson frowned slightly. "Am I missing something?"

Cameron sighed. "I practically kidnapped you from the parking lot, went back to the bar and all but stalked you, let myself into your home-"

"I shouldn't have put you in a position to do any of those things to begin with."

"You didn't. I forced my way into a position to do so."

Wilson sighed and rubbed his neck, sending her a rueful look.

"Hey, Jim?"

The two doctors turned to the boy who was poking his head out into the hallway.

Wilson blinked. "Yes, Matt?"

"Mom wants to know what time her tests will be."

The oncologist looked at his watch, still confounded. "In about an hour and a half."

"Kay." Matt went back into the room just as abruptly as he had left it.

"Cameron," Allison turned back to Wilson. "Everything you did I am grateful for. You shouldn't feel the need to apologize for helping me."

She stared at him, confused. "But you didn't ask for my help."

Wilson returned her gaze steadily. "That doesn't mean that I didn't need it."

His eyes really were an amazing brown.

"Al?"

Cameron pulled herself away from her thoughts to look, again, to the boy who had come out of the room. "Yeah, Matt?"

"Mom wants to know where a good place is for, 'good, cheap and quick' Chinese food that delivers."

Both doctors responded instantly. "Chang's."

They exchanged an amused look.

Matt grinned up at both of them. "All right." He turned back into the room.

Cameron sighed. "Wilson, I imposed where I had no right to. Whether or not that helped you doesn't make it okay." She shook her head. "You have no reason to apologize to me."

Wilson snorted. "I almost threw-up on you!"

"Yes, well-"

"You were trying to be kind and did nothing to deserve my miserable company and drunken groping."

Cameron blinked. "There was groping?"

Matt slid open the door again. "Al?"

"Yes, Matt?"

"What's the number?

Cameron sighed. "I don't kn-"

"345-9826"

Aunt and nephew both sent Wilson mildly frightened looks.

He shrugged. "I don't have a lot of time to cook and I like Chinese."

Matt grinned. "Thanks, Jim." The door closed once more.

"Listen, Wilson." Cameron shifted her feet. "I don't know what you think happened last night, but we didn't-"

"Oh, I know." Wilson interjected quickly. "It's just…" He sighed. "Some of the things I did might have been inappropriate."

Cameron resisted the urge to knock sense into the man. "Wilson, you didn't do anything wrong except for trying to relax after a very bad day."

"And you didn't do anything wrong except trying to help a drunk idiot when he needed it."

Cameron had unconsciously put her hands on her hips, barely noticing that Wilson had done the same and the both of them had frustrated looks on their faces, staring at one another in complete exasperation.

Matt's head poked out again.

Wilson sighed. "Yes, Matt?" He didn't turn away from Allison, still eyeing her with weariness.

"Al, Mom says you're eating with us."

Cameron rolled her eyes and nodded.

"Jim, Mom says you should eat with us, please."

He turned to the boy. "Oh, thank you, but I would hate to impose."

Cameron grinned. "You aren't imposing if you've been invited."

Matt turned on the charm and gave Wilson his 'love-me-please' look that Sammy had taught him. "Please?"

She smiled, watching as Wilson's face adopted a pained expression, the man looking completely flustered. It was rather charming.

She wanted to spend more time with him. Wanted to eat good, cheap, quick Chinese food with him. Even if he was being ridiculously stubborn. Even if doing so was stupid, fed her unhealthy attraction to needy men. As long as she knew that she only wanted him because she thought he needed her, didn't trick herself into thinking that there was something more driving the attraction, there was no harm in it.

Nothing was wrong with becoming friends with the man, so long as she didn't fool herself into believing that she loved him.

She could manage that.

Cameron grinned. "Yeah, come on, Jim." Wilson turned to her, eyebrows raised, as she pretended to pout. "Please?"

Wilson sighed, looking from one set of pouting lips to another. "All right, all right."

Matt's smile was triumphant. "Great." He disappeared behind the blinds.

Wilson looked to Cameron. "You and your family are utterly impossible to argue with."

She laughed. "I know. Wonderful, isn't it?"

He chuckled. "For you, sure. For the rest of us it's a bit more troubling." He rubbed the back of his neck and slumped his shoulders, giving up. "Fine. Since you won't accept my apology and I certainly won't accept yours, how about we say that we're even?" He held out his hand, a desperate look on his face all but pleading for her to throw him this small bone.

Cameron grinned, taking his hand in hers and shaking it firmly, ignoring the small voice in her head that marveled at its textures again.

"Fair enough."

He let out a sigh of relief. "Finally, an area of compromise." He gestured to the door. "Shall we?"

Allison nodded firmly. "I believe we shall."

They entered, Wilson marking his arrival with a droll, "Clara, thanks to you that was the worst quickie I've ever had."

Cameron smirked. Given time, Wilson would be more than capable of holding his own amongst her relatives.

Matt's head tilted from across the room. "What's a quickie?"

---

**Author's Note:** If this story was separated into parts (which it is not, because I have no foresight whatsoever), this would be the end of part one. Thank you for sticking with me for so long!

The chapter coming up will be the 'interlude' and… Different. This either means that I'll be able to finish it very quickly or very slowly. I'm hoping for the former. Also, it might be long (not as long as this, obviously. -glares at long-winded self-), and I don't want to post an incomplete section of it. So please, bare with me oh faithful readers. This story will be finished, have no doubts. It just might take a while. -sheepish grin-

Thank you all again!


	10. Endless Days

**Drenched**

**Summary: **House enjoys the company of a patient- obviously signaling the apocalypse, Wilson is getting a divorce, Chase is falling head over heels, Foreman's thinking of leaving the team and Cameron's sister has cancer. At least it's not raining. Yet.

**Disclaimer:** I ran into David Shore on the street one day. I tried to do something intimidating (I think I ended up hopping around him in a circle while chanting madly) to make him give me House, but he just laughed at me. (Was especially put-out seeing as how my ceremonial hopping/chanting garb wasn't fully appreciated.) House isn't mine. It belongs to David Shore and Fox. Lucky bastards. "It Doesn't Get Much Better Than This" is Nicole Burdette's.

**Author's Note:** Real life continues to get in the way of the important things in life! Like fic-ing!

-shakes fist at real life-

This chapter is rather large, but, really, it took such a long time because I couldn't find the time to write! -more fist-shaking- However, life and I have had a nice discussion, and I think that in a week we've agreed that I'll be able to devote more time to "Drenched." I hope. -crosses fingers-

Once again, I bow before the oh-so-lovely **LastScorpion** who has sacrificed herself once more so the rest of us can suffer less through this tale of mine. My eternal thanks goes to her! Now, I must find new and enticing ways to bribe her into continuing to look over these chapters… -ponders-

Oh, I feel the need to clarify briefly… The past nine chapters would be part one of _two_. I'm long winded, but only to a point! -grin-

Again, I know nothing about medicine and if anyone has any advice or corrections to offer involving the claims I make in this fic, please feel free to contact me. Your input is most welcome, especially in this and coming sections.

This story is canon-compatible up to "Skin Deep."

One hundred reviews! -does jig- Granted, some of these aren't actually reviews… But I'll ignore that and continue to dance happily. -dances- Thank you reviewers. You guys really do make my day and without your encouragement I might have given up on this beast far earlier.

So, to sum up: Reviews/Reviewers are _still_ loved. -hugs reviewers-

Thank you and enjoy!

---

**Chapter Seven: Endless Days**

_I want you to be distant  
And for me to feel you close.  
I want endless days when it's day  
And the nighttime never to end when it's night.  
I want all the seasons in one day.  
I want the sun to set before us  
And come up in front of us.  
-Nicole Burdette_

---

"Be uneasy no more, devoted soldiers. We have another battle ahead of us." House tossed a file onto the glass table before walking up to the whiteboard and uncapping a marker.

Foreman reached for it, staring at the file while Cameron went around the table to glance over his shoulder.

House frowned, stopping in the middle of writing and turning back to his team. He made a show of counting heads. "Is Chase having a polo party when he should be at work again?"

Before either employee could answer, the man in question entered the office, shrugging off his bag without comment.

Foreman blinked at him. "You're not wearing fifteen colors."

Chase glanced up, confounded. "What?"

Cameron tilted her head, "And the colors you do have on actually match one another."

Chase looked down at his blue, gray and white outfit.

"And your tie doesn't look like it's the tail of some small creature." House remarked from his end of the room. "All very fascinating." He turned away from the Aussie and stared at his entire team. "I know Chase's wardrobe generally takes precedence over dying girls, but let's look at little Hannah anyway."

"Hailey," Foreman muttered.

"Whatever."

House turned back to the whiteboard, making sure no one could see his smirk as Chase self-consciously made his way to the coffee, pointedly not looking at Cameron as he did it.

---

Chase was walking down the hall towards the elevator when he was tackled, pushed and otherwise manhandled into a dark room.

"Should I start screaming rape?"

Sammy laughed, turning on an overhead light and illuminating the closet. "Do you think I'm going to take advantage of you?"

"With your stealth-attack what else can I be led to believe?" He grinned at her, bringing a hand to his chest. "You just scared away half of my life, by the way. I hope you're happy."

She rolled her eyes. "You're such a baby. You know that was exciting."

"And painful." Chase rubbed at his shoulder. "Is it your mission to injure me every time we meet?" He gave her an appraising look. "And why did you shove me in here anyway?"

"Well now that you actually have clothes that don't seem as if they've been picked out by a blind person," she eyed his dark green, mahogany and tan ensemble, "I realize that you're quite a dish."

Chase smirked and flipped his hair. "So you did pull me into a closet to have your way with me?"

Sammy snickered briefly. "Is that what you'd like for me to do?" She took a purposeful step forward, forcing Chase to lean against a cabinet or be run into.

He gulped. "Very possibly." He gave a small shake of his head and let out a sigh, gently grabbing her by her arms and pushing her away. "But we shouldn't. I can't; I'm working. And you shouldn't while you're visiting Clara."

"I'm not visiting Clara."

Chase looked up at her sharply. "You aren't?"

"No." She smiled at his surprised expression. "She's at home today."

He frowned. "Then why are you here?"

"Two reasons." She held up two fingers. "One, to remind you that we have a dinner and a bet to settle in a week." She lowered one finger. "And two, because I just finished another book and I wanted to corner you in a closet to celebrate. If you were willing, that is." She smiled as she lowered her other digit, tucking some hair behind her ear and shifting her feet.

Chase frowned at her. "You came all this way just to talk to me?"

"Well, I was hoping we could do a little more than talk…" She grinned coyly at him.

Chase looked down at his watch and then quickly glanced up. "You know, it's my break."

Sammy beamed and raised an eyebrow. "Is it?" She took a step forward, invading his personal space once more and all but pushing him against the cabinet.

Chase nodded vigorously. "And I have a tendency to do very stupid things when cornered."

She smirked. "Excellent."

---

"House, go to the clinic."

"Show's on. Go for me."

"I have been for the past hour. Cuddy found me, snarled, and told me to get you or she would do something unspeakable to your cane."

House's eyebrows rose. "That could quite easily be construed as sexual harassment. She should be careful; I could sue."

"You say it like you believe that your multitude of comments about her breasts wouldn't come into play."

"Peh, details." He swiveled in his chair and tried to look around Cameron so he could see the television. "You know she's making you do her dirty work, right? Making you force me down there when you could be doing something far more productive with your time." He frowned and looked up to his underling, sending her an enraged stare. "The nerve. I think you should rebel, just to teach her a lesson. Go on. Do something wild. Go out for coffee and leave me alone. That'll show her."

"House."

He sighed dramatically. "I'm watching General Hospital. The clinic will survive on its own for the next twenty-nine minutes."

"But some of the patients might not."

He snorted. "Unlikely. You know as well as I do that a five year-old could diagnose and treat most of what we see in that clinic." He glanced around her again. "Commercial's over. Fun time's through. Leave."

She crossed her arms, stood her ground and scowled at him.

"You have a responsibility to treat those people. It's a part of your job. You can't simply dismiss them because you don't find them worthy of your time."

"I'm pretty sure I can."

"That doesn't mean you should."

"But what I should do hasn't exactly stopped me from doing what I wanted to do in the past, has it?"

"House, your job is to treat the sick. They're sick, you should treat them. Just because they don't have some obscure disease does not mean that they don't need your help."

Another sigh. "Is Clara in?"

Cameron's brow furrowed and she looked at him uneasily. "Yes."

House stood up, turned off the television as he passed it and limped out of his office.

Cameron followed, trailing him with a hopeful look. "Are you going to the clinic?"

"Nope."

"House! Cuddy isn't doing this just to irritate you, you know. The board is aware of how you've been slacking off and they do have the ability to fire you. Nothing will stop them from doing so unless you start taking your responsibilities seriously."

House said nothing as he pressed a button on the elevator and entered as the doors slid open. Cameron joined him in the compartment, still speaking.

"That, at the very least, should call to your selfish tendencies and make you consider pulling yourself away from a silly TV show to help others."

He brought a hand to his forehead and rubbed, glaring at the woman still jabbering at him.

"This is real life and real people need you to treat them. Not all of them are here simply to annoy you. Some, go figure, actually need a doctor and thought that they would come to a hospital."

House glanced at her. "If you weren't being so irritating I would almost be proud of your developing sarcasm."

She remained unaffected by the compliment. "You can tape General Hospital and check in on Alexi any time; some of these people can't wait."

House glared at his employee and muttered, "Alexis," before exiting the elevator, refusing to look behind him as Cameron continued to follow.

He increased his pace, Cameron frowning as she did the same, "Are you trying to out-run me?"

"Now that would just be silly. I'm a cripple. I can't outrun you. I can, however, attempt exhaust you to the point where you'll stop talking."

She scowled as House slowed, flinging open the door to room 213 and stepping in determinedly.

Wilson was standing in front of the bed, hand to his neck and staring helplessly at the woman whose eyes were locked on the screen above his head. "Clara, we really have to go now."

"Come on, Jim. You know that big machine gives me the creeps." She looked up at the two doctors who had just entered the room, a smile of relief flooding her features. "Greg."

House quickly made his way to the chair to the left of the bed, Clara giving him a small wave as he jerked his thumb behind him in Cameron's direction, obviously irritated. "Clinic."

She gestured towards Wilson, equally frustrated. "Radiation."

Cameron and Wilson exchanged empathetic glances from the foot of the bed.

House turned to his friend. "Jimmy, tumors don't grow within twenty-five minutes. The disease ridden cells can wait."

"Yes," the oncologist gave an exaggerated nod, "but other patients who need to use the machine can't, House."

"Again, a twenty-five minute delay isn't going to mean life or death for these people. Besides, how many patients do you actually have who are receiving radiation today? One other? Let them go first." House nodded towards Cameron, "Sissy here can take Clara home a few hours later than expected."

"Come on Al." Clara looked up earnestly at her sister. "He'll go down eventually, you know he will. He just wants to avoid it as long as humanly possible. Give the man one last half-an-hour of freedom before you send him to his doom, would you?"

Cameron stared at the older woman intently. "He's been avoiding these obligations since the day he started working here, Clara. There's no way for me to know if he'll go down eventually save for escorting him myself. Besides, Cuddy wants him down there now and I'm sure with good reason."

"Lisa is a woman who is smart enough not to expect Greg for at least another hour. And you should know me well enough to be aware of the fact that I'll force him down there shortly in any case." The woman reached to her bed-side table and opened the drawer, pulling out a bag of Skittles and offering them to House. He took them without comment, engrossed by the television.

Cameron looked helplessly at Wilson while he gave his neck another painful rub.

"Really you two. You should just learn to listen to us and give in to our demands." Clara smirked as she let her gaze briefly go back to the television. "It would save everyone a lot of needless suffering."

Cameron let out a loud sigh, hands on her hips while Wilson crossed his arms across his chest, shaking his head slightly at the two seated in front of him.

Clara grinned. "Aw, look, Greg. Aren't they cute?"

"Adorable," House commented without looking away from the television. "Go on, kids," House said, dismissing them with a flick of his wrist. "Let Mommy and Daddy have their alone time. We'll play with you in a bit. Why don't you two go make mud pies while we're busy?"

Wilson turned to Cameron, frustration plainly written over every feature. "They're impossible." He shot the two trouble-makers an annoyed stare before turning back to the immunologist.

Cameron sighed. "I give up. Cuddy can retrieve him herself."

"I suppose Ms. Roberts can use the machine a bit earlier today." He turned his attention fully to Cameron, gesturing towards Clara. "You can take her home?"

She nodded, sending her sister a glare. "Even if she hasn't earned it."

Clara waved a hand at her, eyes still locked to the screen. "Love you too."

Her glare intensified.

Wilson sent the younger woman a sympathy-loaded glance. "I'll go tell my patient, but then," he shook his head at the entranced pair, "I need coffee. Desperately. Care to join?"

Cameron nodded quickly, making her way to the door and replying with a sarcastic, "Got anything to spike it with?"

Wilson snorted, noting that she only appeared to be half-joking, and nodded towards House. "How do you think I've put up with him for so long?"

They left the room and House gave a smug smile as he sorted through the candies, looking for pink ones.

Clara grinned. "I always knew I'd be the one to drive her to drink."

House handed back the Skittles. "Yeah, yeah. You should be very proud. What did I miss? Did Jax break up with Emily yet?"

---

"I wanted to thank you."

House looked up from his Gameboy. "For my various sexual favors?" He shrugged as Cuddy walked further into his office. "Well, if you weren't so desperate I wouldn't have considered them, but when a woman like you is reduced to begging, even my heartstrings get plucked."

The Dean rolled her eyes. "For getting Pratt out of here." She paused. "And for convincing him to talk to the press."

He frowned. "That was almost a month ago."

"Better late than never."

House shrugged again, focusing his attention once more on the console. "No problem. It was fun to see him stutter in front of all of the cameras."

She sat down in the chair in front of his desk and looked down at her shoes. "It saved my job."

He looked up.

"The hospital... It would have been fine." She sighed and gave a rueful smile. "I know that, have always known that. A lack of investors wouldn't have been enough to close down one of the few teaching hospitals left in the area." She shook her head slightly. "I, however, would have been fired." She brought her gaze to his. "You were there. You heard the things he said. Singing my praises and yours, donating another five hundred thousand dollars to the hospital." She stared at him pointedly. "You knew he would, too. He's too nice not to, felt too guilty for having caused the reactions himself. There was more behind your decision than the simple joy of watching him squirm."

House sighed. "Yes, well. When your money bags have been filled you tend to be more accommodating to us little folk."

She grinned. "I have never been, nor will I ever be, more accommodating to you. If I did, you would take advantage of it quite readily and likely cause far more damage than you already do. You know that too House." She sent him a penetrating look. "Why did you help me?"

He stared at her levelly. "I didn't help you," he said bluntly. "I helped myself."

Cuddy blinked.

"You put up with me. Any other Dean wouldn't bother." He went back to his game. "As charming as I am, they don't seem to appreciate me." House pouted a bit, stopping abruptly to stare at his boss. "But you do. Why is that, Cuddy?"

She stared at him in disbelief. "You just helped the hospital get one and a half million dollars."

"But I lost nearly seventy times as much two years ago."

She scowled. "It's not always about you." She shot him an annoyed glance. "By blaming you I was able to make you take the Pratt case. That's the only reason I've been harping on your part of the whole mess for well over a year." She smirked. "Despite your many flaws, you seem to have a twisted sense of obligation and a serious dislike for being in another's debt."

"Then why did you lose that one hundred million dollars?"

"I didn't _lose_ it, House. I let it go." She sighed in exasperation "You think I liked Vogler? Think that your job was the only factor that convinced me he needed to leave?" She grinned. "You're good at what you do House, don't get me wrong." Cuddy paused and inclined her head slightly. "At least, you are when you're not insulting patients or breaking the law in one way or another. But you, alone, are not worth one hundred million dollars. Wilson wasn't worth one hundred million dollars. _I'm_ not worth one hundred million dollars. Something greater was at stake than checking accounts and your job." She paused and locked gazes with him. "The integrity of this institution. And _that_ was why I let the money go, not because of you."

House rolled his eyes. "Oh yes. Because we're all about integrity here. Or maybe it was because you're a control freak and went into a hissy fit when you realized exactly how much of that control Vogler had taken from you."

Cuddy made a defeated gesture. "If that's what you want to believe, have at it." She crossed her arms over her chest and leaned back into her chair. "As for now, I keep you here, as I've stated in the past, because your reputation is still worth something to this hospital. Over a million dollars, in fact."

House set down his game. "If you got rid of me and my department, along with all of the costs of lawsuits, you could save well over half as much cash annually." He spun a little in his chair, being sure to keep his eyes on hers as he rotated. "I bring in a miniscule cash-flow to the hospital and an air of prestige, which, while admittedly impressive, isn't a logical reason for you to keep me here." He leaned forward and smirked at her. "I'm a liability. I know it; you must know it. But you keep me employed anyway, when any other boss would send me out on my ass. Why?"

Cuddy grinned, raising an eyebrow at him. "Should you really be questioning why I keep you employed? Might get me to start wondering about it as well, and that seems a little counter-productive." House shrugged and she continued. "In any case, I just wanted to thank you for doing something I, naively, thought wasn't solely for your own benefit. My apologies. I forgot how you don't believe in actions that aren't inherently selfish."

He ignored her and continued down his original train of thought. "I'm right. There is a reason, a real reason." He eyed her suspiciously. "And if it was professional you would have told me rather than concocting pathetic lies to hide the truth. That means it's personal." He leaned back once more. "You don't keep me here because you think you should. You're not dumb enough to fool yourself that way. You keep me here because you want me here."

Cuddy snorted. "At long last, my plot is uncovered."

"What is it Cuddy? Do I make you swoon?"

"Yes House." She gave an exaggerated nod. "That is why I keep you here. Just to stare. Gives me a rush. And your hobble is far more appealing than any swagger I've ever laid my eyes upon." She shook her head and grinned as she stood up from the chair, pushing it under his desk.

"No, it's not that. If it was I would distract you, and you're too anal about your job to permit yourself any of those." He tilted his head and studied her briefly. "Are you worried about me?"

She smirked and began to slowly back her way towards the door. "I don't know about you personally, as you've proven time and time again to be nothing if not self-serving. But the overpowering stench of arrogance that seems to radiate from you is getting rather bothersome, I must admit."

House waved a hand, ignoring her comments. "No. Haven't been self-destructive enough in the past months and I've stopped popping Vicodin like candy." Another look at the woman rapidly retreated towards the door. "You're not enough of a martyr to simply be keeping me here for the benefit of society. Not stupid enough either."

She smirked. "You are the expert at the back-handed compliment."

"It might be guilt, for the infarction, but that would be more obvious in our everyday interactions." He grinned and adopted a longing expression. "Wouldn't that be lucky? Then I could exploit you far more easily than I do now."

"Oh, yes." Cuddy shook her head slightly. "A true shame, that." She turned her back to him and reached for the door handle.

House shrugged, looking up at her from his seat disbelievingly. "The only explanation left is that you like me, sans sex-appeal."

Cuddy tensed, hand on the knob.

House's eyes widened dramatically. "You actually like me?"

Cuddy turned and scoffed at him, a panicked look quickly masked. "Your own mother, if she wasn't such a dear, would have trouble withstanding your company much less enjoying it, House."

His eyes didn't leave hers. "You didn't answer the question."

Cuddy broke the stare quickly, rolling her eyes and opening the door. "Go to the clinic. Maybe dealing with the moronic masses will give you something more productive to do rather than attempting to unravel the irrational reasons for your continued employment."

She left the room and House grabbed his cane, twirling it between his fingers, Gameboy forgotten.

---

"Generally, your mother's tumor would've been too large for a lumpectomy by two and a half centimeters."

"Is that small of a difference really important?"

"To the surgeon doing the procedure, yes."

"Why?"

"Because the larger the tumor is, the less likely it'll be that the surgeon will be able to get out all of it without removing the breast entirely."

"Will they get in trouble if they don't get all of it?"

"Not exactly. They'll just look bad."

"Because they messed up?"

"No," Foreman grinned. "Because their surgical statistics will be altered, show lower success percentages."

"So they don't really care about what happens to their patient? Just what their statistics will look like?" Matt frowned. "Is that the way all medicine works? You'll help people, but only if it's easy enough so no one will make any mistakes?"

Foreman nodded. "Unfortunately, most of it. It's all about who looks the best."

"And statistics determine that?"

"Sort of. The statistics show how well the doctor's patients do after they leave their care. The better the statistics, the more patients they've had get better after leaving the hospital." He shurgged. "Good statistics are the most direct way medical personel can gain prestige in the medical community." He paused and then inclined his head. "And it helps the doctors make more money."

"But just because someone looks the best doesn't mean that they are the best."

He gave Matt an appraising look. "You're a smart kid, you know that, right?"

The boy shrugged. "So do you work like that?"

"No." Foreman smiled humorlessly. "My boss wouldn't enjoy it much."

"The one you don't like?"

"Yeah. The one I don't like." He paused for a beat before shaking himself slightly, returning to the original topic. "Since your mother's cancer was too big, Doctor Wilson gave her radiation therapy in order to shrink the tumor before the procedure. Had she been tired lately once she got home?"

"Yes."

"That's why. Her body had been devoting so much energy to the healing process that there was very little left to do her day-to-day activities."

"Will the tiredness stop now that the lumpectomy's been done?"

"Not yet. For the past four weeks she's been having more radiation treatment, which she'll keep having for two more weeks, so that if there are any remains of the tumor we can catch them before they start to grow." He looked intently at Matt. "In a week she'll start chemo."

---

"Do you like me?"

Clara blinked and looked up from the hand that was currently sporting a intravenous catheter as House shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Well if I didn't I would have kicked you out a long time ago. Two months ago, in fact. Chemo isn't exactly something you share with a person you hate."

She stared at him, almost squinting.

House glared. "Why are you giving me that look?"

She quickly looked up at the television. "I'm not giving you any look."

"Yes you are. It's like the stare that overeager kid in science class gives the poor unfortunate frog that was sacrificed so he could poke around its insides."

Clara looked innocently around the room.

"You want to dissect me, don't you?"

She sighed. "Maybe a little."

House groaned.

Obviously taking the sound for acceptance, Clara sat up on the bed. "Why do you care?

"I don't care."

"Then why did you ask?"

House sighed. "Because I had a brief flash of idiocy and thought that you would answer the question and then let the subject pass." He glared at her. "The fact that you're a busy-body somehow slipped my mind. I'll be certain not to make the mistake again."

She ignored him. "You don't care about anyone's opinion unless it can reaffirm your own."

House scowled. "You're doing it again."

"Doing what?"

"Violating me."

Clara rolled her eyes. "You wouldn't have asked in the first place unless you wanted me to do some prodding."

House sent her a look that clearly stated, without words, that she was an utter moron.

She fingered her blanket. "On an unconscious level."

"Is that what you say when you take advantage of other men?"

"Just you Greg, just you." She gave him a fond smile. "So, as I was saying…"

House gave another groan as he realized that she had every intention of continuing.

"You want me to reassure you about something... Help you prove to yourself that you're right, that your assessments are accurate."

She stared at him with interest while he rolled his eyes and pulled open the drawer to the bedside table, finding the Skittles just where he knew they would be.

"You asked me if I liked you. Judging by your tendency to go out of your way to have an aversion to everyone you come in contact with, I can only assume that this policy applies to yourself as well."

"You sound like Wilson. You two should get together some time. Psychobabble at one another until your heads implode."

"He's probably right," she remarked. "Jim's a perceptive guy, and he's known you a long time."

"Yeah." House scowled. "Convenient that he happens to agree with you. But I'm sure that has nothing to do with how perceptive you perceive him to be."

Clara sent him an annoyed glance.

House smirked. "Witty, eh?"

"What else does he say?"

House poured out some Skittles. "That I create my own personal puddle of misery and bathe in it regularly."

She stared blankly at him.

He stared back. "You know. Because I like to build my character through suffering."

She looked at him intently. "Was he right?"

He returned her gaze. "No one likes being miserable." He downed the handful of Skittles.

"No. But it's safer than being happy." Another appraising glance. "Jim seems to know you very well."

"Almost as well as you, apparently. You two should go off and write a self-help book."

Clara glowered in his direction.

"No, really, right now. Run off. You're annoying me. Take the poison drip with you and leave the candy." He made a shooing gesture with his hand.

"This is my room, thank you. You've got two legs, even if one's a bit wobbly. You want peace you can get up and leave." She crossed her arms. "And none of that; you brought this up."

"Under the foolish impression that I wouldn't be facing the Spanish Inquisition." House shrugged. "My bad. I often get my fifteenth and twenty-first centuries mixed up."

She continued to gaze at him silently, causing House to squirm under her steady stare. "I think that Jim's right, Greg. You're afraid of being happy."

He gasped. "Could that be the explanation for my irrational fear of Barney?" He looked up at her hopefully. "You're onto something, doc."

"But the fact that you are afraid of being content isn't the real issue here." She didn't miss a beat, pointedly ignoring the doctor's comments. "It's why you're afraid that interests me."

House sighed. "Note to self: Check for studies that indicate that chemo corresponds with increased tendencies of intentional thickness. Examples include refusing to drop conversations in which one party has no interest."

"Is this your subtle way of telling me to stop pestering you?"

"It is a very strong possibility."

"Unfortunate that I'm going to completely ignore it then."

House sighed and got more Skittles.

"Greg, I think I need to explain something to you." She sat up straight in the bed. "I'm sure Jim has tried to, God knows how many times, but you were probably too stubborn to listen." She paused dramatically. "But, since I'm currently being poisoned, I can only hope that my dire situation will cause you to listen to me, as I'm wasting precious minutes of my life to speak with you."

House shook his head. "Would you stop working the guilt angle? It's entirely ineffective on me."

Clara grinned. "You can be happy, Greg. Being miserable doesn't make you more deserving, doesn't protect you from disappointment or getting hurt. You've done nothing to lose the right to be content." She watched his reactions carefully. "You are a good person."

House's head jerked up and he frowned at her.

Clara quickly clarified. "Not a _nice _person, not a _kind _person. But a good one. Just because others can't always understand your ethical code doesn't mean it's not there, or that it's not a noble one, in its own way. People may not like you, you may not even like yourself, but that doesn't mean you shouldn't appreciate life every now and then. It's a right you've obviously been denying yourself for some time, and I can only guess at why."

House shifted in his chair, popping another Skittle.

"You can't live life without any vulnerabilities; preventing yourself from enjoying existence won't change that. Isolating people won't change that." She smirked. "You know, allowing yourself to be content might actually make things better rather than make them worse." She shrugged. "Just a thought though."

House sat up in his chair and set down the Skittles. "Well that's it. I'm getting a hooker. You've inspired me."

Clara let out a sad sigh. "Of course you are. You know, happiness doesn't always come in the form of a twenty year old girl with big boobs."

"But it certainly should."

"You're aware that its men like you that make women believe that all males are pigs, right? You're doing a great discredit to your sex."

"Fascinating." House reached for the bag of candies, General Hospital having just returned from a commercial break. "Now shut up."

Clara scowled and snatched the bag away before he could grab it. "And for that testy comment you have just lost Skittle privileges."

House promptly began to sulk.

---

"Great food." Sammy said as she took another small bite of cheesecake, finally pushing away the plate. "I hate to stop, but if I take another bite I don't know if I'll make it back out to the car."

Chase grinned. "We don't want that. But nor do I think that we should leave this lovely cake unfinished."

Sammy smiled. "What a horrible predicament I've landed myself in."

"Horrible indeed." Chase sighed. "If only there was someone hungry nearby…" He looked down to his own empty plate and picked up a crumb, putting it into his mouth while combing his plate for other remainders of his dessert.

"Shame that there isn't."

Chase looked up at her, adopting a hurt expression.

Sammy turned her attention to what was left of her cake, picking up her fork once more. "You can carry me to the car, right?"

Chase scowled.

Sammy giggled and put her fork down. "I just love the faces you make."

Chase rolled his eyes. "Does this mean that you've decided to take pity on me?"

She sighed. "What happened to chivalry?" She passed her plate over the table to Chase, grinning.

He eagerly took it and snatched his own fork, taking a bite of the pastry. "Died with the middle ages and the invention of internet dating."

She laughed.

A waiter appeared from some smoky corner of the room, placing their check on the table before promptly vanishing.

Chase finished the last bit of cheese cake and let out a huff of air, grabbing the bill and pulling out his wallet.

Sammy picked up her half-full wine glass and gently shook its contents. "Umm… Smells delicious." She took a small sniff at the wine before sipping the liquid delicately. "Why, I think it tastes like…" She frowned before taking another small sip. "Why yes, I do believe it's victory."

She grinned.

Chase smirked, handing the check to their waiter as he enjoyed watching her smile.

---

"I'm sorry I'm late."

Wilson shook a dismissive hand at the immunologist, attacking his pasta once more with his fork. "No worries."

Cameron sighed, sitting down in her seat with a sigh as she placed her tray on the table, fishing for her own fork. "I don't think that House believes I need to eat. Perhaps he's testing the assumption that I function better when he annoys me more." She took a bite of salad.

"Well that's certainly his attitude towards me. He takes it as a little challenge, even. Tries to beat his personal bests."

Cameron grinned. "Which are?"

Wilson looked up at the ceiling. "I think he once kept me from eating for three days."

She blinked, a shocked look on her face. "How?"

He gave a rueful smile. "Kept giving me false pages and stealing my food while I was out."

Cameron shook her head. "I can't believe you let him get away with that."

"Says the woman who let him keep her away from lunch for," he looked at his watch. "An hour." He gave her a teasing smile. "Good thing I was late or you might've been stuck here alone."

She blushed. "That's different."

Wilson nodded. "Oh, of course it is. You won't continue to let him get away with working you too hard, I'm sure." He took another bite of pasta while smirking at her. "Besides, don't worry yourself. He hasn't tried to starve me in at least year."

She adopted a serious expression, suppressing a smirk. "Did you finally give him a stern talking to?"

Wilson gave a pinched smile. "No." He paused, rubbing at his neck with his free hand. "He just saw me when I had gone a long while without food. Guess it was less fun after that."

Cameron looked down at her plate. "Oh." She took a bite of salad, the conversation suddenly awkward.

Wilson gave one last rub at his neck before bring his hand down. "So what did he have you slaving away at?"

She groaned. "Gels. Hours and hours of gels."

"Couldn't he get a lab-tech to do those?"

She sighed. "He doesn't trust the lab-techs."

Wilson rolled his eyes. "Of course he doesn't. If he didn't look them over before they were hired, they are obviously morons." He shook his head slightly before glancing at Cameron. "Don't let him do that to you. You need your breaks in order to keep your sanity while working with him. Besides," he looked up at her. "I don't like eating lunch alone." He flashed her a smile.

"Me either."

They stared at one another briefly before they simultaneously went back to her food.

Cameron munched on her salad. "So you don't mind that I've taken to eating with you lately? I keep meaning to eat with Clara, but she's always with House watching that stupid," she punctuated with a vicious stab at her salad, "soap."

Wilson leaned away from the table slightly, a frightened expression on his face. "I sense a deep seated bitterness involving this show."

Cameron laughed. "I'm sorry. But just think of all the time they've wasted, collectively, on that thing?"

He nodded in sympathy. "One would hope they would be willing to do more productive things with their time."

She sighed. "But again, you don't mind my company?"

Wilson shook his head. "I thoroughly enjoy your company. You're not the only one who's been tossed aside in favor of day-time TV."

Cameron grinned. "We make a sad pair, don't we?"

"No," Wilson said quickly, throwing out a dismissive arm and smiling. "Just because you've been abandoned by your older sister and I by my best friend in favor of poorly acted, poorly written television…" He tilted his head. "Okay, so maybe we are a little pathetic."

She chuckled.

"But you know what?" He smiled and picked up his soda. "It's okay. We've got each other to cling to through this horrible desertion."

Cameron snickered, picking up her own soda. "That we do."

"To us? Those intelligent enough to dismiss that General Hospital foolishness for what it is?"

She nodded firmly, clanking her can against his. "To us!"

They chuckled lightly and went back to their respective meals, Cameron poking at her salad briefly before looking up again.

"I actually watched it once."

Wilson smiled guiltily. "Yeah, me too."

They locked gazes and laughed.

---

"I thought I should say thank you."

House grabbed his yoyo and blinked. "Not again. I hate reruns."

Wilson raised an eyebrow. "What?"

"What are you thankful for?" House asked, leaning forward in his desk. "My various sexual favors?"

Wilson shook his head repeatedly and held out his hands in a 'stop' motion. "What?" It was unnaturally high-pitched question.

House sighed in relief. "Oh, good. New episode."

Wilson sent him looks that clearly showed the oncologist was questioning House's sanity.

"Why are you singing my praises, Spandex Boy?" House asked, flicking out his yoyo again. "What selfless deed did I perform this time?"

Wilson gave another small headshake and stepped into the room, sitting down in the chair across from House. "I'm going to ignore your comment about sexual favors, that all right with you?"

House sighed sadly. "If you insist, Jimmy. But remember; just because you refuse to remember that night doesn't mean that I can." He sniffed dramatically. "It was just too important for me to forget so easily."

Wilson rolled his eyes. "As long as it remains special in your heart, House, that's all that matters."

House nodded and gave another sniff. "It does."

"Fabulous." Wilson shifted in his seat and then abruptly got to the point. "Thanks for making me talk to Sara."

House frowned. "Little late for that, isn't it?"

Wilson shrugged. "Better late than never."

The diagnostician leaned over his desk and tried to get the advantage of height over Wilson.

Wilson tried to hide his amusement. "And what are you doing?"

"Looking for cleavage."

Wilson shook his head sadly. "I really should have had you sent up to the psych ward long before you reached this point."

House flopped back in his chair. "You don't appear to be Cuddy in disguise, but this might just be another crafty trick to try and get me to the clinic."

"House, go to the clinic."

"No."

Wilson shrugged. "Thwarted once more."

House smirked and gave his yoyo another flick.

"House?"

"Hm?"

"Thank you."

There was a silence as House caught the yoyo once more, bringing the device to his chin as he frowned in thought. "Do you know when the next Truck Rally is?"

Wilson grinned and shook his head slightly, responding, "Next month, I think."

---

The team had just begun the differential for a new patient when Sammy hesitantly knocked on the glass door.

House turned from the whiteboard and gave the woman a long appreciative glance. "Please someone say it's my birthday and that she's my present."

Cameron glared at her boss as her sister-in-law entered the room. "Hey guys," Sammy said as she flashed a smile to the whole room, her friendly gaze lingering on Chase for a moment. She nodded to House. "Obnoxious twerp."

House gave an enthusiastic wave.

Sammy smirked before she turned to Cameron. "Clara and I need to steal Al for a moment to help Wilson with a family history before Clara starts a new form of chemo." At Cameron's raised brow Sammy quickly clarified, "She can't remember the condition your Dad had."

"Temporomandibular joint disorder."

Sammy blinked. "Al, you know I can't say that without biting my tounge repeatedly. Just come with me for ten minutes."

Cameron sighed, gesturing towards the rest of the room. "Sammy, I can't. I'm in the middle of work-"

"Go."

She stared at her boss in shock. "What?"

"Go. We'll start the differential without you." House turned back to the whiteboard, writing another symptom.

Cameron blinked.

House sighed, turned away from the board once more and gave her a look of mock concern. "Do I need to repeat myself, again?"

"That's it? You're just letting me go?" She eyed him suspiciously. "No making fun of the fact she has cancer? No tormenting me for being concerned?"

"Not this time." House's expression remained bland as he stared at her. "Be sure to hurry when scampering back, though. If we're left alone for too long we'll just start running around in circles, lost without your insight."

She stood up wearily, walking towards her sister-in-law and sending House one last, confounded, glance. "Come on," she muttered to the other woman, walking out of the room.

Sammy looked from the departing Cameron to House, finally bringing her eyes to Chase.

The Aussie shrugged.

She returned the gesture, sending him a wink before leaving the office.

House whistled and craned his neck to catch the sight of the two walking down the hall. He then sent Chase an accusing look. "I can't believe you could be hitting that."

Foreman's head jerked up, eyebrows raised disbelievingly. "Her?"

When the intensivist didn't respond, Foreman sat up in his chair. "Chase, Sammy is Cameron's-"

House interrupted, grinning broadly. "And now you know why he almost pees himself when Cameron's around."

Chase glared at his boss. "House." His tone was unnaturally serious.

The diagnostician turned to Foreman. "You see that?" House rotated stare back to the blond. "He's glaring at me." He took in Chase's stern appearance and shuddered. "Almost scary."

Foreman shook his head at Chase "You haven't told her?"

Their boss spoke up. "Well, he didn't tell me or you. He's certainly not going to tell Miss Fuzzy that he's involved with her sister-in-law. Might cause some tension with the whole meth-induced one-night stand and all."

Chase ignored them both and looked down at the file, absently biting on a pen. "The patient presents with kidney failure and hyperparathyroidism. Not to mention sensorineural deafness. I'm thinking Barakat's syndrome."

Foreman shot the younger man an annoyed look. "He's sixty-five years old, meaning that the deafness probably isn't a symptom." He snorted. "Kidney stones would make just as much sense."

"Brilliant." Chase sent his colleague a pointed stare. "Except that he doesn't have kidney stones."

"Now, now." House waved his cane between the two men. "Slow down you two rockets you. It's tea-time and we're missing a member of the musketeers. Let's take a break and talk some more about Chase's mad affair, shall we?"

Chase scowled. "We have a patient. Let's talk about him instead."

House shook his head. "Not until my curiosity has been satisfied."

Foreman raised an eyebrow from his end of the table, staring at Chase just as intently as House was.

The intensivist looked at the two men and sighed. "Look, it's just for fun, for both of us." His jaw clenched around the pen and the plastic produced an ominous 'crack'. "I don't want Cameron to take it the wrong way and start berating me for destroying Sammy's virtue." He looked intently at the two in front of him. "That's all." He turned his attention back to the file. "Now get out of my personal life."

House rolled his eyes, capping his marker and focusing on his employee. "If it's 'just for fun' then why haven't you jumped in the sack with her yet?"

Foreman glared. "House, the patient."

His boss glowered. "Oh stop trying to protect him. You're just as curious as I am. At least I have the decency to be honest about it."

"Honest? By manipulating the information out of him?" Foreman snorted. "Yes. That's honest."

House shrugged. "So I have no morals. I know this removes me from that pedestal you placed me on Eric, but try to move past the pain." He looked away before he could see Foreman's nostrils flare and turned to Chase. "Well, Blondie?"

The intensivist seemed amused, pen out of his mouth and leaning against his chair. "What makes you think I haven't slept with her?"

House gestured to Chase's clothes. "You haven't started wearing your technicolor dream coat again, which means you're still trying to impress her."

The man smirked. "Did you ever consider that I could just like matching for a change?"

"No."

Chase blinked at the bluntness, while Foreman eyed his boss with interest.

House grinned. "You're pretty, Miss Chase, and you know it."

The man frowned. "Thank you?"

House ignored him. "Most people need clothes to keep up appearances of beauty and professionalism. You don't care about the latter because you don't want to advance your career." He huffed. "Keeping it, certainly, but you don't need to impress anyone to do that. Just not screw up quiet so often." House eyed the man, feigning compassion. "Might want to work on that bit."

Chase glared.

"On the other hand," House continued, taking no note of his employee's scowl, "your pretty factor matters because it makes your life easier. As a rule, beauty can get you more, faster, in this world than brains, and that's a fact that you've repeatedly exploited, I'm sure."

The Aussie shurgged.

"But, unlike some other unfortunates," he sent a significant glance to Foreman, "you don't need over-priced clothes to look like you've descended from the heavens."

Foreman rolled his eyes.

The diagnostician gave a dignified cough. "When we take this information into account, we find that there's no reason why you would continue purposely picking out what to wear when you don't want to get promoted and you don't need to look prettier. Especially when you've gone the past thirty-two years without. That leaves only one explanation." House walked up next to Chase, sitting in the chair to his side. "You're not doing it for yourself; you're doing it for her."

Chase remained silent.

"Well, more specifically, so that she'll have sex with you," House amended quickly. He sent Chase a sympathetic glance. "Not as efficient as drugs, but I suppose it'll have to do." He patted the man on the shoulder. "Keep it up. I'm sure it's getting you big points."

Neither of his employees said anything, Foreman observing Chase with interest while Chase did the same to the glass table.

"Although, that being said," House commented, interrupting the quiet, "this isn't just for fun."

Chase's head shot up.

"She's been around for over two months. If you were simply looking for a good time it would have been your typical 'wham bam thank you ma'am' and she would be long gone. But she's still here, and that's why you're so petrified of Cameron." House smirked. "You don't think that Cameron will believe that you're using Sammy for your sexual endeavors. You're afraid that Miss Fuzzy will think that you love her."

The man stared at his superior.

"Don't worry," House reassured his underling as he stood up from his chair, hobbling back to the board. "I'm enjoying your suffering far too much to tell her about the 'fun' you're having. Just be sure to keep the show entertaining and you have nothing to worry about from me." House hung his cane on the board and clapped his hands together enthusiastically. "So. The patient?"

Chase stared at his boss briefly before looking down at the file. "Barakat's syndrome explains all symptoms."

And Foreman did his best not to study Chase as he responded, "The deafness isn't necessarily a symptom of anything other than old-age."

---

"I think I like," Clara eyed the selection critically, "this one."

Sammy raised an eyebrow at it. "It has… Monkeys on it."

Cameron ducked in from the side of the two taller women and nodded. "The monkeys are a bit much, I must admit."

Clara sighed and put the scarf back on the rack, scowling at her companions. "No fun, either of you."

"You're mad now, but you'll be grateful later," Sammy remarked as she made her way to the other end of the store, looking through wigs.

"How about a green wig? Can I get one of those?"

Cameron grinned. "I don't know how well your patients, all of whom are mentally dependant on your sanity, would take that, Clara."

The older woman made a dismissive gesture. "They'd cope."

Cameron sent her a disapproving look.

Clara sighed. "Fine fine fine. Look," she grabbed a blue scarf, "this looks innocent enough. You both approve?"

Sammy glanced over from around a mirror. "Too dull."

Clara threw the scarf up into the air and sat down in a couch, making a point not to show that it was because she didn't feel as if she could stand much longer. "I give up. You two get to pick out my new headwear for me."

Cameron grinned and began looking through the scraps of fabric herself while Sammy walked out from behind the mirror, empty handed. "Why are we here anyway, Clara? Your hair's not falling out."

"It's like magic, Sammy dear." Clara smirked. "Just because you don't see it," the woman grinned and pulled gently on her dark locks, taking a small clump of hair with her, "doesn't mean it's not there."

Sammy paled slightly, eyes locked onto Clara's hand. "Oh."

Cameron saw the frightened glance and pulled Sammy over to the scarves. "Sammy, you know I'm hopeless with accessories. Riffle through these, would you?"

She nodded. "Right." She took a deep breath. "That I can do." She focused all of her attention on the contents of the rack.

Cameron made her way to her sister, sitting next to her on the couch, but saying nothing.

Clara sighed. "I shouldn't have done that."

"It's okay," Cameron said, "You can't be all right all of the time."

Clara snorted, putting her head in her hands and leaning her elbows on her thighs. "It's not just this, Al. It's with Mark and Matt that I really fall apart." She shook her head. "It's not fair to them, it's not fair to Sammy…"

"Clara." Cameron leaned forward, concerned, stroking her sister's back soothingly. "It's all right. They know, they understand. This disease isn't fair to anyone, not them and especially not you." She smiled as the older woman looked up. "Stop being so hard on yourself."

Clara grinned. "Stop doing my job and I'll consider it." She sat up and shook herself. "Now to change the subject to cheerier and far more interesting matters," she increased the volume of her voice, "Sammy! I know it was a while ago, but how did the date with Rob go? In all of the excitement of chem-," she paused. "Well, in all of the excitement I forgot to ask."

Sammy turned around, a huge smile on her face, apparently missing the small halt in Clara's question. "Very well, if I do say so myself."

Cameron blinked. "Date? With Chase?"

Her sisters stared at her. "Yes?" Sammy looked at her suspiciously. "He hasn't told you?"

Cameron shook her head. "I had no idea."

Clara smiled sadly. "I'm not terribly surprised. He's an extremely private person."

Sammy let out an exasperated sigh. "No kidding. I just saw his apartment last night." She rolled her eyes. "Didn't go inside of it, mind you. He just pointed it out when he was dropping me off last night."

Clara reached up and patted Sammy on the arm. "I'm afraid you have an uphill struggle ahead of you, dear." She then looked to her right and stared intently at a stack of wigs.

Cameron stared at the woman intently and then raised an eyebrow. "What do you know?"

Clara turned and stared at her younger sibling innocently. "I have no idea what you mean."

"Spill, Clara," Sammy said, crossing her arms. "Al's right. You sound far too smug to be ignorant."

Clara glared up at the woman. "I like you better when you're sucking up to me."

Sammy smiled. "I'm a lot nicer when I'm not trying to get information on the man I have every intention of snagging."

Cameron smirked. "Snagging?" She eyed her sister-in-law. "You really like him?"

She nodded, grinning mischievously. "So far, from what I know of him." She glanced back to Clara. "Although that decision's still pending." She turned back to the older woman. "What is it Clara?"

Clara sighed and twiddled her fingers. "He had a rough past, is all."

Cameron glared. "This isn't a patient of yours, Clara."

Clara looked up at the two eager young women, turning her attention fully to Sammy. "I'm telling you this so that you know what you're getting into, Sammy. You better be certain about whether or not you want him." She turned to Cameron. "And I'm telling you this because I very much doubt that you'll leave if I ask you to."

Cameron grinned.

"His mother was an alcoholic. He had to take care of her for several years before she drank herself to death."

Sammy and Cameron exchanged a glance.

"How did you figure this out, Clara?" Cameron asked.

"House told me." She rolled her eyes. "He's such a gossip."

"I can't believe I didn't know..." Cameron looked up to her sister, gaping. "I've worked with him for nearly three years."

Clara smiled slightly. "It's not your fault," she snorted. "House wouldn't know about it if he wasn't as nosy as he is."

Sammy frowned. "Should I be concerned?"

Clara shook her head. "No more than you were before. I'm sure you've already discovered his reluctance to be involved in a relationship?"

Sammy gave an exaggerated nod.

"Then the only thing I recommend is that you decide exactly what you want." She stared at her sister-in-law intently. "If all of this is just for a good time, then great. It makes it simple for both of you. But if you expect more from him, be ready to fight for it."

The youngest woman present shifted her feet. "What do you think I should do?"

Clara glared. "None of that now. I'm not here to think or feel for you. This your decision, not mine." She sighed, looking up at the artist. "But I do know that you would be good for him." She smiled. "If you could convince him not to run for the hills as soon as you suggest a real 'I love you' relationship, which will be damn hard, just so you know." Clara began to stand.

"Wait wait wait." Sammy frowned more deeply, gently pushing Clara back to the sofa and raising a brow. "Bolt? And how hard is 'damn hard'?"

Clara sighed and gazed at Sammy. "If he does start to care for you and he, somehow, admits it to himself, he'll try to run." She frowned. "At least, I think he will." She looked up at the confused expressions of the two women in front of her and began to explain. "Children of alcoholics have a tendency to be wary of forming attachments with people. Since their parent, generally a figure that a child trusts without question and loves deeply, was so unstable and apt at unconsciously hurting them, they become extremely disinclined to care for others. To protect themselves, they reject the emotion before they can give the other person the power to harm them."

Clara sighed, grinning up at Sammy. "More likely than not he'll try to rationalize it, make it seem as if it's better for both of you if he leaves." Her expression became serious. "But if you let him go, he won't come back."

"So that things won't get complicated."

Clara and Sammy each frowned, turning back to Cameron, who was staring at her shoes.

"What was that, Al?" Clara asked.

Cameron shook herself. "Nothing." She stood up, grabbed a scarf with clouds in the shape of various famous buildings and held it up. "I like this one, personally."

Sammy smiled, walking over and taking it. "I like it too."

Clara sighed, standing up and snatching the fabric from them, heading for the register. "Attempt to give advice and they go back to shopping…"

Sammy turned to Cameron. "Tormenting her is way too much fun."

Cameron nodded, smiling, her thoughts far away.

---

"She's losing her hair now."

Foreman nodded at the boy. "That's because of the chemotherapy."

"And she's more tired than before, she gets sick a lot, throwing up…"

"The chemotherapy."

Matt sighed, pacing in front of the neurologist. "What else can it cause?"

Foreman eyed him wearily, but upon seeing his serious expression quickly began to explain. "Well, there's neutropenia, which is when the white blood cells that fight off infection are reduced."

"Is that bad?"

"If she gets sick, yes. Another problem is anemia. Basically, the amount of blood in her body is reduced. This can cause fatigue, dizziness, headaches, irritability, and an increase in heart rate or breathing. She could also start tasting things differently, have kidney or bladder infection, get mouth sores, have a decreased appetite, bruise more easily…"

Matt sat down next to the neurologist, staring blankly ahead of him. "And this is the best way to get her better?"

"Yes." Foreman turned to him, considering the boy seriously. "I know that the effects of the treatment are going to be hard to cope with, for both you and for your mother, but Wilson wouldn't administer chemo unless there wasn't any other choice."

"Is he well-known in the medical community?"

Foreman frowned. "Doctor Wilson?"

Matt nodded.

"Not especially. Why?"

"Then Mom should have a different doctor." He pushed himself off of his chair and began to stride out of the lab.

"Wait, Matt." Foreman got off of his own chair and grabbed onto one of the boy's arms, turning him around so Foreman could see Matt's overly bright eyes. "Doctor Wilson is one of the best doctors in this hospital. Your mother couldn't be in better hands."

Matt shook his head. "If he's not known in the medical community it means he has bad statistics. If he has bad statistics that means his patients die!" He looked up at the neurologist helplessly, a tear escaping from the corner of his eye which he quickly wiped away, the boy taking a deep breath. "I don't want her to die."

"Matt," Foreman sighed, rubbing his forehead. "No one wants your mother to die. And statistics, they aren't everything. The only reason Wilson's not better known in the community is because he's so young."

"He's older than you."

Foreman snorted. "Do you think if I held any sway in the medical world that I would be staying with a boss that I hate?"

Matt grinned and gave a short, snotty, laugh. "Guess not."

The doctor guided the boy back to his chair. "Listen, prestige doesn't make the doctor any better, you said it yourself." He stared intently at Matt. "Wilson is extremely good at what he does. So much so that he's not afraid to take risks." Foreman sat down himself. "That's why he took your mother on to begin with. She has an advanced form of cancer that most oncologists wouldn't be willing to tackle."

"But you said that doctors only care about statistics?"

"Most doctors do," Foreman admitted. "But recognition doesn't make them good."

Matt looked up at him expectantly and Foreman shook his head, grinning bitterly and rubbing his head. "It makes them common." He sighed. "The best doctors don't care about numbers, don't care about gaining praise. They care about getting their patients healthy." He frowned.

"And Wilson does that?"

"Yes, Wilson does that."

"Do most doctors?"

Foreman shook his head. "I only know one other."

He said nothing for several moments, staring at something far away, before turning back to Matt.

The boy still looked apprehensive.

"Look, Matt." Foreman shifted so he could look at the boy more easily. "I give my word that Wilson will do everything possible to help your mother and that he is the absolute best physician that this coast has to offer her. You couldn't ask for a better doctor, statistics or no."

"You swear?"

Foreman held out his hand. "I swear."

Matt took it in his own, shaking it.

Foreman grinned briefly, patting Matt on the back. "All right, now you better get back to your family. Can you find the room?"

Matt frowned. "People keep telling me that I'm smart, but no one thinks I can find the same room my mother's been in for nearly three months."

Foreman laughed. "Sorry."

Matt shrugged. "I'm a kid. It happens." He made his way to the door, stopping before he left. "Why do you want me to leave?"

The doctor raised an eyebrow. "I never said that."

"I know. But you're trying to get rid of me. Why?"

Foreman sighed. "I have a decision to make."

"A tough one?"

The neurologist nodded.

Matt smiled. "You'll make the right choice." He turned to the door and gave a small, "Goodbye, Eric."

Foreman grinned. "Bye, Matt."

The boy walked out of the room, and the doctor was left with his thoughts.

---

"I feel like a thirteen year old."

"Oh, come on, Wilson."

He glared at her from over his sandwich. "And I get to ask you a question after?"

Cameron nodded as she took another spoonful a soup. "Promise."

He sighed.

"So let's have it! Secret talent."

Another sigh. "I play the guitar."

She grinned. "Well?"

He adopted an offended expression. "As if I could play any other way?"

She smiled. "Forgive me for questioning your ability."

He gave a satisfied nod. "Forgiven." A small frown. "As long as you don't tell House, that is."

"He doesn't know?"

Wilson shook his head vehemently. "No. I'm sure if he did I would be forced to join a band or some such thing so he could better display his skills on the piano."

Cameron laughed.

"I'm serious! He found out that Cuddy had, once, in her youth, played the harmonica and wouldn't stop harassing her for five months."

She sighed sadly. "Poor Cuddy."

"What was worse when he found out that Karl from Bookkeeping plays the kazoo."

She snorted into her soup.

"My turn now?"

She nodded while groping for a napkin.

Wilson offered her his own, which she took gratefully as he tilted his head.

"What is your middle name?"

Cameron smiled smugly. "Burroughs."

Wilson scowled. "That, Doctor Cameron, is a cop-out and you know it."

"It's my middle name!"

"It's your _maiden_ name." He grinned. "Now fess up. House snickered for an hour straight after looking over your file when he hired you, and since he never actually reads those, I can only assume that it was your name that got him to giggle like a school-girl."

She let out a heavy sigh. "Agatha."

Wilson blinked. "Agatha?"

"Yes." She took a swing of her soda. "Agatha."

"Allison Agatha Burroughs." He tilted his head. "Did your parents dislike you?"

"Hey, at least my parents didn't curse me with the initials 'J.E.W.'" She gave his hand a sympathy pat. "Really, Wilson. Didn't they know how difficult they were making your childhood?"

"'Edward' was far better than the alternative."

Cameron smiled. "And what was that?"

"Robert."

A frown. "How is that bad?"

He blinked pointedly at her. "My name was almost Jim-Bob Willy."

She snorted again.

Wilson smirked as he handed her another napkin. "Would you like a bib?"

"Thank you, but no, Doctor Wilson." She snatched the napkin from him, suppressing a grin. "Next question."

"This continues?"

Cameron nodded enthusiastically. "You didn't think I'd content myself with one bothersome question, did you?"

"I suppose it was foolish of me…"

"Very." She eyed him intently, her gaze trailing to his chest. She looked up suddenly. "Why the pocket-protector?"

"Besides the fact that it makes me look dashingly handsome?"

She inclined her head. "Of course."

He took a bite of sandwich and swallowed quickly. "My first month working in oncology, I was assigned to the case of a little girl called Martha. She had leukemia." He frowned slightly before shaking himself. "She was six," he gave her a pointed stare, "very cute," Cameron grinned, "and had the whole department completely wrapped around her finger."

Another quick bite. "I walk into her room one day to get her for her next radiation session, knowing full-well that she's absolutely petrified of the machine and ready to soothe her into coming with me. But, when I step in, her eyes are wide and she's staring at me like I just ate her puppy." He sighed. "Pen exploded in my pocket, ink covered my lab-coat and shirt." He shook his head slightly. "I had to call in a nurse to bring her to radiation and she hid under the covers every time I came into her room after that."

"And you didn't want to let it happen again." She tilted her head, studying him. "It really bothered you that she was frightened of you." A statement, not a question.

"She was a six year old with cancer. I was her doctor and was supposed to help her, not scare her more than she already was. If wearing this," he flicked his protector, "is all that it takes to make it easier for one of my patients, then there's no reason why I shouldn't do it."

Cameron smiled at him, her eyes locking with his for a brief moment before he broke the stare, grabbing his soda.

"Plus, it makes me look dignified." He sipped at his soda loftily.

"Without a doubt." Cameron smirked. "You know where I could get one for myself?"

"Have a particular style of protector in mind? There really are a multitude of options available to you."

---

"… Allison comes home, distraught that these boys won't let her play with them because she's a girl."

"I can understand that."

House snickered, sitting in his typical chair to the right of Clara's bed. "You a member of a kiddie Kickball League, Chase? You got upset because they wouldn't let you play because you're a girl? Or just because you play like one?"

"No, on all counts," The intensivist replied, glaring at his boss from his position by the exit of the room. "But kickball is damn fun."

Sammy nodded from her seat next to him. "It's true. I remember I once-"

"Excuse me?" Clara coughed pointedly, adjusting the scarf on her head. "I'm telling a story here."

Sammy sighed. "Yes, Clara, please forgive us. Feel free to carry on."

"Sorry," Chase added sheepishly.

House looked at the two and then glanced back at Clara. "I'm not sorry."

The older woman rolled her eyes and continued with her story. "So Allison tells Joan, her mother, what happened. Now, Joan was the kindest woman I have ever known-"

"That must be where Cameron gets that annoying kindness from," Wilson said from the chair positioned next to House, smiling at the diagnostician.

"It would make sense." House nodded at his friend. "Mother's fluffy center is a genetic thing, transferring over to the next generation."

Wilson smirked, shaking his head.

House turned to Clara. "We must know," he stared at her intently, "was Cameron's mother a stuffed-animal?"

Clara ignored him, turning to the rest of her audience. "Joan, as I was saying, decided that the only way to teach these boys a lesson was to prove them wrong." She laughed. "Poor Joan. Her plan was to put her daughter's hair under a cap before she went back to the diamond, but Allison wouldn't have it."

Foreman let out a small chuckle from where he was standing by the window. "She wanted to cut it?" At Clara's confused nod Foreman asked again. "Cameron wanted to cut her hair?"

At another nod Foreman laughed into his hand.

Matt looked up at the neurologist from his mother's bed, which he was sitting on. "What is it?"

Foreman shook his head. "I've tried to convince her to cut it for months now, just because it's so long that it can get in the way during procedures."

Mark laughed from the corner of the room, the only space large enough to fit him in the crammed room. "I take it that she's refused?"

Foreman nodded while House did the same, the older doctor grumbling, "I even offered her substantial monetary bribes. No dice."

Mark grinned. "She's stubborn."

House groaned. "Yeah."

"_Anyway_," Clara shot a glare around the room, encouraging silence. "Al pestered Joan until she agreed to it."

House shuddered and let out a small, pained, moan.

Everyone in the room gave him a collective stare.

"Sorry," he muttered. "Just got an image of Cameron gone butch in my head." Another shudder. "Not a pleasant picture."

Clara took no notice of him. "Joan found me and together we began the, very long, process of cutting all of my younger sister's hair."

"Jimmy." House leaned towards the oncologist. "Is she ignoring me?"

Wilson smirked. "I think she is." He gave a small thumbs up to Clara. "She's a very smart woman, after all."

House pouted. "You're a horrible best bud."

The oncologist shrugged. "I'll try to move on past the pain."

Clara gave another cough. "In a few hours Allison was out of the house with a bowl cut, demanding that everyone call her 'Al'."

"And thus, the name was born," House said, yawning. "Great story. Perfect way to waste away precious minutes of my life."

"You didn't have to stay," Sammy pointed out.

Foreman smirked, arms crossed over chest. "Probably would have been better if you didn't."

Matt smiled at House and shrugged. "I thought you were funny."

House nodded at the boy. "You're a smart kid."

"That's what they keep saying," Matt said as he looked towards the door, his face breaking out into a huge smile. "Aunt Al!"

Everyone turned to the door to see Cameron staring in, a mildly confused look passing across her features. "Hi, Matt." She glanced around the room, eyebrow raised. "Hi everyone." She sighed helplessly. "Why are you all here?

Wilson grinned from his seat. "Clara promised me the first day she came in that she would tell me how you got your nick-name."

Cameron sighed. "Of course she did." She sent her sister a glare and then turned it to everyone else. "And the rest of you?"

Mark held out his arms in the classic 'I mean no harm' gesture. "I'm just visiting my wife during my lunch break."

Matt grinned. "It's Saturday and I have no school. Sammy took me here to talk to Mom."

Sammy nodded and then pointed to Chase, who had a 'deer caught in the headlights' look about him. "I made him come."

Cameron grinned and then stared pointedly at her other coworker.

Foreman smiled from across the room. "I was dropping off Matt from the lab."

There was a silence in which everyone turned to House.

He looked up at everyone and shrugged. "I was bored."

Clara beckoned her sister in with a small gesture. "Come on, I'm at the best part."

"You mean the part where I kick those boys' butts?"

"That's the one."

Cameron smiled and stepped into the room, walking past the mass of people and stopping at Wilson's chair, sitting on the arm of it and smiling down at him. "Can't miss that."

Wilson shook his head solemnly. "Most definitely not."

---

"So you're a shrink."

"Yep."

House tilted his head at the woman on the bed. "For how long?"

Clara absently scratched at the skin around her intravenous catheter. "About thirteen years."

"Doesn't seem like a long time."

"It's not."

"And yet you still get far too much money for prying into the personal affairs of others."

"That I do. Like I said, I'm good." She shot him a quick glare before looking again at the show currently being played. "Now quiet. Haven't seen this episode, unlike some people. Too busy having cancer to catch it every afternoon."

House grumbled and turned back to the television.

A minute later and he glanced at the woman again. "Have you ever helped Cameron?"

Clara blinked. "Never. When she was learning how to walk I just laughed when she fell. Much more amusing than aiding her in standing back up."

"You gave her those books on soft-positional bargaining two years ago, didn't you?"

"Yep." She gave him her full attention and smirked. "Cause problems for you boys?"

He sent her a betrayed look. "Why would you do that to us?"

The grin widened. "Well if you wouldn't have discredited her opinions at every turn she wouldn't have mentioned it to me. Then you never would have been tortured." She smiled sweetly. "Your fault, not mine."

"What about Freud?"

Another blink. "What about him? Besides being a revolutionary in modern psychology, of course."

"You fed Cameron theories from him."

"And then she fed them to you?" He glared and she simply continued to smile. "Not surprised. What did she say?"

"Nothing important, or valid."

"Sure she didn't." Clara looked down at her blanket and picked at the hem. "I bet that she used some quote or another to prove that you like her."

"You two are like teenage girls during prom season, aren't you?" Clara raised a brow. "Does she tell you all of the juicy details of her life?"

"What?" She looked mildly insulted. "Didn't think I've deduced it just from my observations of you for the past month?"

House gave her a bland stare. "You're a shrink. That does not give you the ability to read minds or sense the occurrences of the past. She told you."

Clara scowled. "She doesn't tell me everything." A slight pause as she picked at the blanket again. "She does tell me most of it, though."

He smiled smugly. "Ha."

She rolled her eyes. "Hey, it's my job. I'm the comforting older sister; I'm supposed to listen, be sympathetic and offer advice." She blinked at him pointedly. "And since you seem to be the source of the most grief in Al's life, I hear about you often."

"I'm almost proud of that."

Clara glared again.

"So does that mean that you're the one who convinced her that I like her?" House sent her a weary look. "Because if so, I think we need to have a chat."

"I didn't tell her that you like her. I told her to leave you alone."

House smirked. "She obviously ignored you." He paused briefly and looked up at the screen, not turning to her as he gave a short, "I'm surprised."

"Why?" Clara gave him a baffled stare. "Al does have a mind of her own, a fact that she reminds me of repeatedly."

He snorted. "It would be more than a little difficult to be caught off guard by that piece of information. Cameron, sadly, doesn't come with a mute button. She makes all of her opinions known. Vocally and often."

She smiled fondly. "That's my girl." A frown. "Then why are you so shocked?"

"Because you didn't do something foolishly sentimental and tell her to," he gazed earnestly in her direction, "_follow her heart_."

Her eyes rolled once more. "Yes, well. I do have her well-being in mind."

"Think I'll hurt her again? Get out the whips and chains and do something too kinky for her to handle?"

"No." She gave him a long appraising look, reluctant to speak. "I just don't think you'll let yourself love her."

"Are you kidding? Didn't you know about my mushy center? I may seem harsh, cold and utterly uninterested in her, but that's all a front." He nodded energetically. "She has to _dig_ to find the love that I've suppressed."

"I would tell her as much, but I don't think anything can penetrate that sarcasm." Clara was doing her best to hold in a grin. "The shovel would break."

House shrugged. "Her loss. I'm quite a man. The limp and cane just add to the sexy."

"So you think it's the fact that you're the epitome of male perfection is what made her like you?"

"No. Although that would at least make sense. I mean, I am a dish."

"Well obviously." She smirked. "So then why is she interested in you?"

"She's not interested in me," House answered quickly, turning back to the television. "It's an infatuation, a crush. She sees suffering," he gestured to his leg as he reached for a Skittles bag on the bedside table, "and flocks to it faster than Wilson to his cancer kids when they start sobbing."

She stared at him with interest. "So you think she has this crush on you because of your physical suffering?"

House held up a finger. "Let's not forget my emotional torment. She feeds off that too." He pulled out a colored bit and started munching while he spoke. "She thinks she can fix me, make it better, make it so it hurts less." He searched for another candy in the bag. "And it's not just me. Can't forget cancer-hubby." He rolled his eyes at Clara and downed several more pieces. "She wants to believe she can remedy that which can't be cured. Sick, screwed up and dying people help her maintain the illusion."

Clara leaned back in her bed and considered him. "What do you know about Brian?"

House looked up with a confounded expression on his face. "Who?"

"Guess my question's answered." She grinned. "Her husband."

"He was sick. She knew, she married him and he died." He threw another handful of sweets into his mouth. "All very sad and all very stupid."

Clara glared. "Did you know about his sisters?"

"Well if I didn't know his name I'm pretty sure that I didn't pick up on the details involving his family."

She ignored his sarcasm and continued. "They were adopted from China by his parents when he was a teenager. You know how it is over there for little girls, don't you? Most families want boys, and they're only allowed one child each. Too many girl children are killed or abandoned so their parents can try again, for males."

House yawned.

"Brian learned Chinese, went to China the summer before he met Al to help smuggle some of the kids out, constantly doted on his sisters-"

"Yes yes," House interrupted. "He would have made a lovely father. Sadly, it's a bit hard to rock the kids to sleep when you're a corpse. Cameron probably should have considered that when marrying him."

Clara sighed. "You're missing the point here." She sent him an intense stare. "This kid had plans. He had a future, a purpose. He was a good person, wanted to help people, and would have had he been given the chance. But he wasn't. It was all cut short, every piece of it, because of this disease." A pause. "When Al met him he had just been diagnosed. Do you think that cancer changed who he was? That this illness was what convinced Al to like him?" She inclined her head. "Granted, she might not have married him if he wasn't sick. She does have a habit of clinging to the helpless, attempting to save them in any way she can," her gaze returned to his, forcing his eyes to lock with hers, "but those weren't the reasons why she was interested in him to begin with." Clara sighed and grinned. "And your limp, cane and oh so soft and mushy center weren't why she was interested in you."

House brought a finger to his chin. "Hmm... Haven't been rescuing any Asians lately. Did save a rat though. For some reason I don't think Steve has quite the same effect as simpering Chinese babies."

Clara shrugged. "I think rats can be cute."

"Steve thanks you."

She smiled. "You save people too, Greg. You do good things, or at least what you think is right, even if no one else agrees with you. She can appreciate that." She frowned. "Even if you are a general ass while you go about doing it."

There was silence as they both turned back to the television.

Then House spoke suddenly. "You said that she was interested in me?" He gestured to himself. "Think she's finally realized that she won't be gettin' none of this jelly?"

Clara sent him a mildly petrified look. "If that means 'has she gotten over me,' I really couldn't say. Although it doesn't seem as if she's been idealizing you quite as much as she used to." She stared at him intently, keeping her tone light. "Good thing for both of you, as you weren't the least bit interested in reciprocating her feelings."

"Right." House looked down at the Skittles he had poured out into his hand, staring at them for several quiet moments before tossing them into his mouth.

Clara observed it all with interest.

"So." House stared at her eagerly. "Why would someone voluntarily go to China?"

She sighed. "Did you miss the whole 'saving innocent children' part of that story?"

"I might have purposely overlooked it, yes."

---

Foreman stared at the computer, waiting for test results. "Do you want to get some drinks tonight?"

Chase raised an eyebrow from across the lab.

"I know, I don't usually drink-"

"You never drink, Foreman. Except on weekends when you don't have a conference to go to. It's a Thursday."

The other doctor shrugged. "I've got a lot on my mind." Foreman focused on something far away and then shook himself, turning back to his colleague. "Anyway, do you want to join?"

"Sorry, but I can't." He looked back down to his crossword and chewed on his pen.

"Oh well." Foreman stretched in his seat and let out a yawn. "Stuck drinking alone after another overly long week, then." He frowned at Chase. "Why can't you make it?"

"Already have plans."

He sent the younger man a puzzled glance. "That are more important than drinking away a week filled with House's torment?"

Chase glanced up, saw Foreman's determined expression and sighed, taking the pen out of his mouth. "Clara's starting a new form of chemo today and I'm going to hang around with Sammy until she's done with the treatment."

Foreman leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest and giving Chase an intrigued look.

Chase blinked. "What?"

The older doctor let out a small laugh. "House was right. You really do care about her." He smiled. "Clara too."

Chase snorted and turned back to the crossword. "No."

Foreman smirked. "Yes. I heard about the bet. You paid for the dinner. Even you know you like her family, at the very least."

"I paid for dinner," Chase said slowly, "because I knew that it would make her happy. Generally, happy people are easier to get into bed than angry ones."

The neurologist narrowed his eyes. "I'm not buying it."

Chase sighed.

"If it's true, then why aren't you going to go out and have some drinks with me tonight? Why stick around and watch a woman get chemo?"

"Look," Chase took the pen out of his mouth and glared, leaning forward in his seat to properly scowl at Foreman. "I'm just making sure that Sammy doesn't become an emotional train-wreck on me. If and when she does, I want to know so I can bail." He picked his pen back up. "That's it."

Foreman smirked. "Normally you wouldn't even be waiting." He gave his friend an appraising glance. "This is too risky, has too much potential to turn sour." He grinned. "You care about her. You just don't want to admit it."

The neurologist shook his head, chuckling lightly as he picked up the newly printed lab results, slapping Chase on the back on his way out. "Good luck. You'll need it."

Foreman left the room and Chase stared down at his crossword for some time, finally throwing the pen onto the table and leaning back in his chair, bring his hands to his face and letting out a long sigh.

---

There was a knock on Wilson's door and he muttered a distracted, "Come in."

"Wilson?"

The oncologist looked up from the files strewn about his desk to see Cameron hesitantly stepping in from the hallway, a look of surprise passing over his features. "Cameron." He furrowed his brow. "Why are you here?"

Cameron held up her hands, showing two plastic cartons. "You missed lunch, so I thought I might bring the food to you."

"I did?" Wilson looked down at his watch and his eyes widened. "I did. By several hours."

Cameron smirked. "Six, to be exact."

Wilson looked up and grinned. "I hope you didn't wait during all of them?"

She smiled. "I like you, but not that much."

"Note to self; work on the charm factor."

Cameron laughed and handed him one of the cartons, which he took gratefully as she sat in the chair across his desk.

"Thank you." He sighed and stared at the immunologist. "I'm sorry, Cameron. I had no idea where the day went…"

Wilson put the carton down on his desk and rubbed one hand across his face, the other going to the back of his neck.

Cameron frowned. "What happened?"

Wilson sighed, removing the hand from his face but increasing the pressure on his neck. "Nothing, it's not important."

"Wilson."

He glanced up at her to see her staring at him like that again. Giving him that look that made him unable to deny her anything.

"I had to tell two of my patients that they were going to die today."

There was a small silence during which Cameron stared at her feet and Wilson stared at the box with his food in it, neither moving or speaking.

"I'm sorry."

Wilson shook his head. "Please, don't be. It's not your fault."

Cameron stared at him. "It's not yours either."

He smiled bitterly. "Easy to say, harder to believe." He sighed, looking back up at her. "They both thanked me." He laughed cynically, scratching at his neck more viciously. "I tell two hardworking people that they're going to die in less than three months, and they thank me for bearing the bad tidings." He shook his head, staring briefly at the files before him.

He let out another sigh, brining his gaze to Cameron. "I'm sorry." He kneaded the skin on his neck fiercely, determined to get rid of the persistent kink. "I'm not going to make for good company tonight, through no fault of your own." He rubbed harder still. "Thank you for your concern, and for the food and I'll be certain to be more entertaining tomorrow, but now-"

"Wilson."

His head jerked up. "Yes?"

Cameron eyed him with concern and stood up from her chair, walking around from the desk.

Wilson watched her in confusion. "What are you doing?"

"I," she said as she walked behind his chair, "am preventing you from rubbing off your own skin."

"What does that mea-"

He jumped when she put her hands on his neck and did the rubbing for him.

"Calm down," she said with a grin. "I'm not going to hurt you, Boy Wonder."

Wilson felt the knot he had been trying to loosen for the past decade unravel under her fingers. He restrained himself from moaning in relief. "I would be mad at you for using that horrid nick-name, but you're currently making it increasingly difficult for me to form sentences."

"And my true motive is discovered."

Wilson let out a half chuckle, half satisfied 'hm,' as she found another knot.

Five minutes later she finished with his massage and promptly returned to her seat, opening her carton of food and munching contently on its contents.

Wilson pulled his head up from the back of the chair and gaped at her. "You have healing hands."

Cameron raised an eyebrow. "Good thing too. Otherwise the whole 'doctor' thing might actually be difficult."

Wilson laughed and picked up his own container of food, considering the immunologist in front of him. "Thank you."

She looked up from her meal and smiled. "You're welcome."

There was a small silence as they located the plastic forks and situated themselves.

After he had found his fork Wilson muttered, "Just don't think this will allow me to forgive you for the 'Boy Wonder' comment."

Cameron grinned and took a bite of her own food. "Wilson?"

"Yes?"

"It's not your fault."

He sighed and took another bite of his belated lunch. "I know."

---

Sammy and Chase entered the apartment laughing, Sammy flipping on a light as they staggered in.

"I can't believe you actually said that." His chuckles died down a bit and Sammy held out a hand, Chase obediently shrugging off his jacket and handing it to her.

"I assure you, I did," she said as she made her way to the closet, hanging his coat and throwing her own in on the floor.

"If I said that, I would have been beaten to a bloody pulp."

"Displaying yet another aspect of the inferiority of the Y chromosome."

"Really, calling the bouncer's mother a hippopotamus? Sure he wouldn't let us in, but he could have hurt us, you know."

"Well it was true!" Sammy smirked as she made her way back to him, navigating around piles of art magazines, silverware and various articles of clothing. "If someone is going to hit on me while I'm out with my friend and still not let us into a club, then I have the right to insult them. Besides, if his mother wasn't a hippopotamus then his father certainly was. There's no other way a human could develop so much blubber."

Chase laughed again. "Point made."

She smiled at him. "Come over here." She grabbed him by the wrist and pulled him through the room, leading him to another, smaller, area. "Be careful," she said, pointing to a bucket of paint on the floor." This is my livelihood in here, so no messing around."

Chase grinned. "Yes ma'am."

She dragged him to the corner of the room where a large desk was set up, art supplies, completed pieces and notes carefully arranged in an order that was noticeably absent from the rest of the building.

She beamed proudly. "My desk."

Chase looked from her to the heavy oak of the furniture, noting the many paint stains on the fine wood, amused. "Hello, Desk."

Sammy cocked her head and nodded, smiling fondly at her workspace. "He says, 'hi'."

Chase chuckled and looked around the room. "So this is where all the magic happens?"

She nodded enthusiastically, carefully going through some of the canvases that were leaning against the writing table. "This," she pulled out one of the paintings and set it on the wood, turning on an overhead lamp, "is what I've been working on for the past three weeks."

Chase stared at the colors, the textures and forms of the six frames in front of him, awed. "Sammy, it's-"

"Not much, I know. And it's not really art, since it's just for a children's book but..."

He smiled. "It's wonderful."

She let out a breath of air and Chase smirked. "Let me finish next time before you start defending yourself, all right?"

She grinned sheepishly. "Right." She looked at the piece and then back up at him. "You really like it?"

"Yeah," he said, tilting his head at an odd angle, still staring at the canvas. "Although, I'm not sure my opinion really counts for much when we consider the fact that I have problems drawing stick-figures. You might actually want to discredit my praise."

She smacked him lightly. "Thanks a lot for your encouragement. Really." She glared at him. "I'm overflowing with confidence now."

"Sure thing." He sent her an obnoxious smirk before glancing at the work once more. "Really Sammy, these are great." He leaned in closer to the works, taking note of the small details. "I had no idea you could actually paint."

She adopted an annoyed expression. "You sound awfully surprised about that."

Chase straightened and threw up his hands with a sigh. "I can't win."

Sammy smiled as she moved closer to him. "Nope. And if you could I would take it as a grand personal failure." She wrapped her arms comfortably around his waist, gently pulling him towards her.

Chase grinned as he was tugged into an almost-hug. "Couldn't have that."

Sammy shook her head and did her best to look stern. "No we couldn't." She leaned forward and brushed her lips against his before slowly pulling away. "Do you want to know a secret?"

Chase produced a satisfied, "Hm?"

"I didn't invite you up just to look at my artwork."

Chase's eyes widened and Sammy smiled, kissing him more firmly this time, Chase returning her attentions with equal enthusiasm.

Minutes later they paused for air and Chase brought his nose to her hair, breathing in deeply before he closed his eyes in content, leaning his forehead against hers.

Due to the proximity, Sammy didn't see the look of panic on his face as he suddenly snapped his eyes open.

"I can't do this," Chase said without warning, backing away from her. "I'm sorry." He began to turn towards the door. "I can't."

Sammy grabbed his wrist, keeping him from fleeing, looking at him earnestly. "You can."

He shook his head, almost frantically, before taking a breath. "I shouldn't." He tugged his wrist free and brought his hand to her cheek, just brushing her skin with his fingertips. "I like you too much." He smiled sadly and began to retreat once more.

She grasped his hand before he could pull away. "That doesn't have to stop you."

Chase looked at her, staring at her eyes, her hair, her swollen lips. Every perfect aspect of her coming to him in full detail. He thought of the endless days it had taken him to appreciate them all, what they had done and said, all the beauties of her expressed to him in subtle ways that he had purposefully missed.

Because she was one of the things that was far too perfect to be real.

He sighed.

"Dammit."

Sammy frowned and opened her mouth to speak, but by then Chase had erased the distance between them and was kissing her.

---

Wilson entered room 213 with a look of dread on his face.

"This is the best part, right here." Matt was sitting in front of the television, eagerly pointing to the screen as a man jumped onto a train, dodging bullets all the while.

Chase shrugged on his left, also staring. "It's all right. Not nearly as good as when they have the shoot-out though."

Matt shook his head. "That's all done by computers though. These stunts were done by actual people."

"Personally," Sammy remarked from Clara's bedside, "I don't see what's so great about these movies. They're more flare than anything else."

Mark held up a finger from Clara's right. "Aha, but its exciting flare!"

Clara rolled her eyes. "I'm with you, Sammy. No purpose but to make men pine for guns." She glanced up to see Wilson in the doorway. "Jim." She smiled and gestured towards the TV. "What do you think? Absolute brilliance or complete crap?"

"Clara, we need to talk."

She waved a hand at him. "Of course, but answer me first. What do you think?"

"You know you love them," Chase said from his chair, staring at the older doctor hopefully. "You don't want to like them, but deep down, you can't help yourself."

Matt nodded enthusiastically from his side.

Sammy groaned, standing up from her chair and walking over to Chase. "Come on, Jim. Be the exception. Prove to me that men do have decent taste." She kissed the top of Chase's head as she said it, taking away the sting.

Clara smirked. "So, Jim? Will you restore Sammy's faith in your sex?"

"Later, Clara. We need to discuss something first."

She sighed. "Yes, yes, but first-"

"Doctor Samson, I need to speak with you now, please."

The room was reduced to silence.

"Everyone out, please." Clara said, staring at Wilson, fingers clenching to her blankets.

Mark looked quickly from Wilson's steely gaze to his wife, the large man seeming to deflate. He kissed Clara quickly on the cheek before rapidly exiting the room, striding with purpose out of the confines.

Sammy took Matt by the hand and left as well, looking at her feet as she dragged the boy out of the room, Matt glancing behind him at his mother as he was pulled.

Chase was the last to leave, standing still a long time in the center of the room, saying nothing. At last he moved, not looking at Clara but giving Wilson a small squeeze on the shoulder before he left.

The sliding door closed, the blinds were drawn.

"Yes, Doctor Wilson?"

Wilson took a deep breath.


	11. Drenched, pt one

**Drenched**

**Summary**: House enjoys the company of a patient- obviously signaling the apocalypse, Wilson is getting a divorce, Chase is falling head over heels, Foreman's thinking of leaving the team and Cameron's sister has cancer. At least it's not raining. Yet.

**Disclaimer**: I wished upon a star for House. You know the whole, "Anything your heart desires can come true" bit? All lies. -bitter- House belongs to David Shore and Fox. "It Doesn't Get Much Better Than This" is Nicole Burdette's.

**Author's Note**: Everything was against this chapter being written. First, I lost the first two thousand words when my computer crashed (and they were so good… -sad sigh-), then I graduated, then one my dear aunts got diagnosed with, out of all things, breast cancer (she'll be fine! -sigh of relief-) and now I have a job to help pay for the college experience, which has greatly detracted from writing time. My apologies for the very long delay, especially with the cliffy. It was not intended, I assure you!

This will be another two-parter chapter! Excitement!

This chapter hasn't been looked over by **LastScorpion** yet! Be forewarned! I'll be pleading with her to look over it when I get off of work tonight. Mayhap if I give her cookies she'll be willing to aid me… -bakes cookies-

Medical knowledge is still nonexistent. Any corrections or tips will be most appreciated.

This story is canon-compatible up to "Skin Deep."

Reviews/Reviewers are loved.

Thank you and enjoy!

**EDIT**: This section has now been **LastScorpion **approved! –cheer-

Some of my more idiotic mistakes this update include but are not limited to…

"A clean scrap of clean cloth" AKA, a really clean cloth!

"The remains of her tumor were too large, too persistent in growing and her regiment…" She has an armed guard, didn't you know?

"Clara shook her said solemnly." I am now left to wonder how one manages to shake a said. –ponders-

"Foreman commented dryly as he pushed open the room." That's right! Super-Foreman!

-cough-

Thanks a million to **LastScorpion**, without whom this story would simply spontaneously combust due to all of the ridiculous errors. Remember! Praising sessions on Wednesdays! Bring lots of cookies!

---

**Chapter Eight: Drenched, Part One**

_I want water up to our waists  
And I want to be drenched by the rain  
Up to our ankles with holes in our shoes.  
I want to think your thoughts  
Because they are mine.  
I want only what's urgent to you.  
I want to get in the way of the barriers.  
-Nicole Burdette_

---

Clara's fingers gripped at her hands with an intensity that surprised Wilson, nails digging into skin and leaving deep grooves, reddening the flesh, almost tearing it.

That ferocity was the only sign that the woman in front of him wasn't as composed and calm as she appeared, sitting in the chair across from his desk with a straight back, steady gaze and fearless disposition. Even with her frightfully pale skin, her scarf-clad head, how frail she had become, no one could mistake Clara for a weak woman.

Two months ago James had been forced to admit that Clara's treatment wasn't working. The remains of her tumor were too large, too persistent in growing and her regimen required major overhauls if they expected her condition to improve. For the three months following her lumpectomy he had been scrambling to find the perfect combination of chemotherapy and medication, subjecting the woman to three different forms of chemo with seven varied doses and eight types of oral medication.

And Clara had smiled as her hair, which had already begun to thin, fell out in clumps, eagerly posing for photos with her husband, proudly displaying her newly bared head next to his. Instantly she declared that she was almost grateful for the chemo, as it gave Mark and her one more thing in common. She had even managed to convince Foreman to join them for a few photographs, the young doctor rolling his eyes and grinning as Clara slung an arm over his shoulder, resting her hand on his bald head while providing her husband with similar treatment on her other side.

When Wilson had to alter her regimen, increasing her chemo to daily sessions for a month, Clara had been too tired to pose. So, instead she took to wearing brightly colored scarves, happily telling Wilson the story behind each ("Sammy nearly strangled me after I picked this one out,") when he visited her every afternoon.

But the month passed and the cancer still hadn't receded. So, Wilson had ordered a mastectomy.

After hearing his request Clara had nodded at him, spent twenty minutes alone in Wilson's office and then agreed to the procedure. They performed the surgery the next day.

And after it was through Clara had shrugged at the concerned expressions of her family and doctor, commenting dryly, "I thought when I left high school that I wouldn't have to experience the lovely sensation of a stuffed bra ever again. Thanks cancer, for bringing that back to me." And everyone had laughed, and Wilson allowed himself to believe that the worst was over.

It wasn't.

Because the mastectomy had been too late.

He rubbed his neck, avoiding the gaze of the woman seated nervously in front of his desk, tearing at her skin.

Throughout the past months Clara Samson had become more than just another patient to Wilson. Granted, Wilson never viewed any of the people to pass through his department as 'just another patient,' but even in this regard Clara was different. She had earned his friendship and deepest respect, undergoing humiliating tests, painful treatments and degrading surgeries with as much dignity, grace and refinement as any patient he had ever treated.

And now, after all of that, James had to tell her that she was dying.

It was almost an art, the ability to deliver the worst news a person was ever likely to hear. After years of practice Wilson had mastered the ability to be earnest without being condescending. To adopt an expression that that conveyed a clinical compassion that comforted most patients. Concern without pity, sympathy without hidden mockery.

He hated it. Hated telling his patients that despite all they had endured, it was hopeless. That they had a year, six months, four weeks, to say goodbye to everything they knew and loved. What was worst was when they thanked him. Thanked him for failing them, for delivering their death sentence.

But instead of showing this reluctance, Wilson devoted all of his effort into giving the news as carefully, skillfully, as possible. It was the least he could do, for people who had trusted him and whom he had failed. After, he could go to some private corner and grieve for the loss of another good life.

But until that moment, he never froze, never had to search for words. He knew every medical term to say, knew every inflection of tone to use. He never broke down, never appeared to be anything other than a compassionate doctor giving his patient unhappy tidings. It was his job, his moral responsibility, to make the news as easy to hear as possible. He was allowed to fall apart later, when he was alone and no one was depending on him.

He couldn't make the exception now. Not with her.

He looked up at Clara, staring intently. "Docto-" And he noticed that for the first time since she had entered Princeton-Plainsboro, Clara looked frightened.

What was he doing? To this woman who had become his friend?

He stood up from behind his desk, sitting down in the chair next to Clara and scooting it closer to her. "Clara," he said, noting her small smile even as her fingers clenched more tightly at her hands.

She nodded in his direction, forcing her grin to widen. "Jim." She spared her surroundings a nervous glance. "I'm sorry for not appreciating your office properly, but in the past I've gotten nothing but bad news in this room." She eyed him critically. "And from the look on your face, I don't think that's a tendency that's about to change."

"Clara, the cancer's metastasized to your lungs."

She gave a small, bitter laugh. "See?"

"We couldn't stop it before because the symptoms are barely noticeable without a CT scan of the lung."

"That's why my treatment wasn't working? Because it was already too late?"

"No," he reassured her quickly. "If you had come in with that condition we would have known about it long before now."

"So the treatment just didn't work?"

Wilson shook his head. "The cancer was too aggressive."

Clara looked down at her hands. "Oh."

It was far more painful than it should have been, to watch a strong woman humbled in such a way.

"We can extend your life as long as possible, make you as comfortable as we can-"

She looked up at him helplessly. "There's nothing else you can do?"

I'm going to die? You couldn't cure me? Couldn't help me?

He wished that he could lie. "There are experimental treatments that you can volunteer to take, but they..." Won't work.

He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck while giving his head a light shake. "I'm sorry, Clara." He looked her in the eye. "You're dying."

She was silent a moment, staring at him blankly. "How long?"

"A few months. Maybe four, if we start you on the new meds immediately."

She nodded, letting out a sigh. "Thank you, Jim."

He winced before he could stop himself, grateful to note that Clara hadn't seen it.

Her eyes started to become overly bright and she sniffed slightly, shaking her head and smiling at him. "See, this is no fun when you know all of the steps." She gave a slight nod. "First there's supposed to be denial."

She looked to him. "But you wouldn't play with me, wouldn't give me false hope and wouldn't demoralize me unless you had no other choice." Clara gave a sigh. "And pretending that something's not real, not true, won't make it go away.

"Then anger, at you first, I assume." She smiled. "But that's just as difficult to maintain. I know how hard you've worked, Jim, and I know that you did everything you could. And I can't be mad that my time's through. I did get a few more years than my mother did." She paused, glancing at her hands. "There's that, at least."

She gave a small laugh. "Bargaining, well." She waved her hand dismissively. "I've never been one for compromise."

Her eyes overflowed as she turned to him. "So that leaves depression." Se sniffed. "Which I'm afraid I'm having a little difficulty with."

Her voice cracked slightly. "I'll never get to grow old with my husband, Jim."

Why hadn't he been able to help her?

Clara let out a small bark of laughter. "I'll never know if Will can get his act together." She smiled. "Baby brothers can be like that, you know."

Wilson nodded, giving a sad smile of his own. Yes, he did know.

Her expression saddened. "I'll never get to see Al finally be happy."

Cameron.

God, what was he going to say to Cameron?

"And Matt." The tears increased even as her face lit up in pride. "Oh, he's so smart, Jim, you've talked to him, you know. And sweet too. The ladies will love him when he gets older, I know it already."

Wilson smiled, marveling in the love of a parent for her child. He ignored the painful flare in his chest as he thought about Julie, about the baby.

Clara shook her head. "I just thought I would be there to see it when it happens."

Life, any life, was too precious to waste.

She looked at him helplessly. "I won't get to watch him grow up, Jim. Won't be there to straighten his tie for his prom, his graduation, his wedding..." She trailed off, wiping at her eyes before laughing slightly. "Mark's horrible with ties." She snorted. "My boy's going to look ridiculous on the most important days of his life because I'm not going to be there to fix his ties."

And with that Clara brought a hand to her face, covering her eyes as her shoulders began to shake, sobs wracking her body, tears flowing out from in between her fingers.

Wilson had more experience with death than any person should have to. He knew that it wasn't fair, that it was never pleasant. That people were always hurt. Knowing these things had made the process of revealing death easier for him in the past.

But not now. Not with her. Not with a woman who had so much left to offer the world, that so many people loved and depended on.

He scooted closer, taking her free hand in his and squeezing it lightly.

She squeezed back, with more strength than Wilson thought she had. "I'm not ready to die, Jim." She looked up at him, tears still flowing. "This is too soon." She flicked away a tear on her cheek. "Later, but not now." She stared at him hopelessly. "Not yet."

Wilson found himself saying, "I'm so sorry," even though he knew it wouldn't help.

---

Chase made his way through the front doors of Princeton-Plainsboro in a bit of a rush, resisting the urge to shoulder his way past the flood of people steadily entering the hospital. Due to an unexpected extended stay at Sammy's, he found himself waking up that morning without a scrap of clean in sight that wasn't meant for a decidedly curvier person. And as much as House would get a kick out of his intensivist cross-dressing, Chase was not willing to subject himself to the embarrassment, discomfort and mockery that the practice would entail. So, slightly frantic, he had sped over to his own apartment, grabbed the first clean pieces of fabric, that matched, he came in contact with and then raced to work.

And despite his impressive feat of traveling across town (generally a half an hour trip) and back in twenty minuets flat, he was still running late.

Chase hated being late.

It wasn't that he had anything to hide; not truly. But sharing the intimate, or even mundane, details of his life required far more trust in others than the intensivist felt that he could maintain. Those who knew more about him, his favorite color, what he did on his days off, the events of his childhood, did not necessarily like him more. Weren't more likely to be around when he needed them. Didn't guard his secrets more carefully. All that the extra knowledge accomplished was giving others a greater ability to use it to their own ends. Why give them more ammunition? Why take the risk?

Chase preferred to err on the side of caution. When people left his life, as they always did, they did so no better and no worse off than when they had entered it, and so did he.

But there were some who weren't content with this arrangement, and House was one of them. Not because he wanted to be closer to his employee (the thought was laughable), but because he was curious. Much safer than genuine interest and concern, but no more welcome.

Chase liked House (as much as anyone could like the company of the man), respected him. But that didn't mean that he was any more willing to share the details of his life with the diagnostician. In fact, given what had happened in the past, with his father, Chase was more inclined to keep any and all dealings of a personal nature away from the older doctor.

House was almost frightening in his desire to pry into Chase's life, in his ability to uncover that which Chase had done his best to keep carefully hidden. If his boss caught him showing up late, he wouldn't let it go. He would poke, push and prod until Chase slipped. Accidentally said more than he meant to, let an expression pass over his features that gave the perceptive man a clue to the intensivist's feelings. It was exhausting, attempting to keep his guard up with House pounding incessantly on its doors, doing his best to wear a hole in Chase's defenses. Generally, it was only a matter of time before House had unearthed the explanation that he wanted from the Aussie, despite Chase's attempts to keep his personal life to himself.

In a way, Chase was grateful for House's bluntness. Most people, when digging for information, were far more subtle, more conniving, in their efforts. Trying to convince Chase of their pure intentions, trick him into trusting them. And although he never did, sometimes the urge to do so was painfully tempting. Because they made it seem so easy, so smart, so safe, so unbelievably natural, to trust. And then, after Chase had every confidence in them, they would turn on him. Disappoint him. Hurt him.

At least House had the dignity, the decency, to stab his victims from the front.

And it was due to this warning, this knowledge, that Chase went out of his way never to be late. If he never gave his boss the excuse, maybe he would be able to keep the man's curiosity at bay.

Fortunately, his boss never showed up to work until it was at least an hour after he was expected, so Chase's five minute delay would, with any luck (which, admittedly, Chase had little of), pass by unnoticed.

"Doctor Chase!"

He winced, suspecting the worst, before hesitantly turning towards the voice.

"You're late."

Relief highlighted his features as Sammy smirked at him, making her way inside from the entrance. "And you, the respectable doctor. I hope you're ashamed."

She moved as if to hug him and Chase threw a panicked glance around the room, noting the people watching. Too many people, far too many.

She followed his gaze and smiled sadly, backing up a step.

He instantly felt ashamed for having caused her spirits to dampen.

He then promptly scolded himself for such thoughts.

Chase didn't love her. He liked her, yes. But he didn't love her. He was attached, but not to that point. Not yet. He could still leave if he needed to. Could still forget her, even though it would be hard. Even if it would hurt.

He didn't care if she was sad. If he had wronged her, if he wasn't the person that she actually wanted.

Her fault, not his. If she was disappointed by him, Chase would remain guiltless and unaffected.

But he still couldn't get that sinking sense of shame to leave his thoughts.

"Hello to you too," Chase said, forcing a smile. "And yes, I am late." He grinned at her. "All your fault, by the way."

Sammy smiled coyly. "You can't say that it wasn't worth it."

He recalled the night before, lips upturning. "Nope," he responded quickly, still smiling.

It really had been a great night.

Sammy rolled her eyes. "Men."

He shrugged. "Hey, you weren't complaining then."

She laughed and shook her head at him. "Oh so charming, Doctor Chase."

He nodded. "That's my job as a dashing doctor."

"Really?"

"Yep. It was on the application."

She smirked. "House doesn't fit the criteria."

"Yeah, they felt bad about the cripple thing and thought they'd let the charm slide."

Sammy shook her head sadly. "Poor fools."

Chase inclined his head. "About five minutes after he started working here they regretted the decision."

"Well let's hope that they, at the very least, learned a valuable lesson from it then." She was doing her best to suppress a smile, a task at which she was failing miserably.

Chase found himself smiling back, her cheerfulness infectious.

He shook himself briefly. "As happy as I am to see you," he said with a smile, a bit shocked to note that the statement was true, "what brings you here this morning?"

Sammy tucked a stray hair behind her ear, glancing down at the floor. "Clara called."

Chase furrowed his brow. "Are you supposed to pick her up today?"

"No." She shook her head and looked up to him. "And that's what makes it so strange."

Very strange. Although Chase had only known Clara a few months, the fact that the woman despised being a burden to others was far from a mystery to him. It was what she disliked the most about her condition, apologizing profusely when a family member or friend was inconvenient inconvenienced due to her illness, determined that it shouldn't affect those around her as profoundly as it was affecting her. She insisted that she maintain her independence in small ways, taking the bus whenever possible, buying the groceries, going to work when she wasn't too exhausted, seeing her patients when others would have gladly done so for her. She had no wish to prevent her loved ones from going about their daily lives as normal. And in order to attempt to prevent this from happening, she tried to go about hers as if nothing was out of the ordinary. As if she wasn't undergoing painful treatment, as if she had enough energy to perform her everyday tasks, as if she wasn't sick.

The act was more than a little convincing, the only undeniable indication that Clara was sick being her scarf-clad head. Everything else could be easily dismissed, overlooked or outright ignored.

It was an impressive deception, one that everyone gladly bought into for fear of acknowledging the harsh realities of Clara's illness. No one wanted to know the toll that the disease was taking on her. No one wished to see the strong woman that had won the affections of every individual she came in contact with brought to her knees by cancer. And so Clara didn't let them.

That she had called Sammy did not bode well. She had been forced to allow the performance to slip, and only something drastic could have prompted the very determined Clara to risk distressing her loved ones. Perhaps her sessions of chemo would be raised again, an already exhausting ordeal for the woman. Any more and Chase sincerely doubted that she could function even in a mildly productive manner.

Chase eyed Sammy critically, noting how she kept pushing locks of hair behind her ear, her teeth lightly pinching her lip.

She was worried. Scared, even.

And it annoyed Chase to admit that despite the worry and fear, she still looked beautiful.

He shook himself, adopting a only slightly manufactured expression of concern. "Do you think something's wrong?"

"I don't know." She frowned and returned her gaze to her feet. "I'm actually off to see her now." She looked up quickly, giving him a hesitant smile and slightly desperate look. "Would you come with me?"

Come with her? To the heart of the disaster that Chase could sense just beyond the horizon?

He only just restrained himself from snorting.

No. Chase had gone out of his way for nearly the past two decades to avoid just these types of situations. Emotional turmoil was not his specialty. He did not enjoy strife, high tension situations that he had no control over or voluntarily subjecting himself to anything that might remotely resemble complex sentiments. He had lived through them before and hadn't enjoyed an instant of it, learning his lesson very painfully, but very clearly.

And no pretty face was going to make him forget it.

He shook his head lightly and stared at her earnestly. "I don't think I should, Sammy."

A flicker of panic crossed her features and she reached towards him, grabbing the arm of his lab-coat. "Please?"

Chase looked around the room quickly, noting that no one was watching them, before turning back to the woman.

She was scared. Petrified. Her eyes wide, tone desperate, looking up at him as if he was her lifeline. As if she couldn't travel to room 213 without him, wouldn't be physically or mentally capable of it.

And as much as he told himself that he didn't care if she was afraid, or scared, and as bitterly as he internally laughed at her for thinking that she could depend on him, on anyone, he suddenly found that couldn't make himself hurt her.

He let out a sigh. "Okay."

She smiled in relief and gave his arm a light squeeze before letting go. "Thank you."

He nodded without comment, calling himself a thousand different types of fool as he gestured for her to lead the way to the elevator.

Chase was, most definitely, in over his head.

They entered the empty lift silently, Chase observing Sammy as she stared blankly ahead of her, unmoving as she blinked at her reflection in the sliding doors.

That unnatural stillness from a woman usually so full of energy and life caused the doctor to pause, edge closer to her. "You think that it's going to be bad news." It wasn't a question.

He had never seen Sammy this way before, so devoid of her usual spirit and enthusiasm. She must have suspected the worst, and the effect it had on her concerned him. Concerned him far more than it should have.

Her head jerked up and she brought her gaze to his. "I..." She let out a sigh and gave her head a small shake looking at him helplessly. "I don't know."

And, in the moment that followed, it made perfect sense for Chase to erase the distance remaining between them and kiss her forehead, instinctually grabbing her hand in his and squeezing it gently.

He purposefully blocked out the internal voice that demanded to know why it had felt so natural for him to comfort her.

And as she smiled slightly, resting her forehead against his, the voice was easily silenced.

They stayed like that until the elevator let out a high-pitched ding, signaling their arrival to the oncology floor.

Sammy let out a breath of air, straightened her posture and brought the back of Chase's hand to her lips, pecking the skin lightly before lessening her grip, striding out of the elevator as soon as the doors slid open.

Chase followed mutely, smiling at her determined gait.

He was still grinning when she threw open the door to 213.

Clara raised a brow at the entrance, gesturing for Chase and Sammy to enter the room as she talked on her cell phone.

Sammy crossed her arms over her chest and stared pointedly at the woman as Chase edged his way into the space, resisting the urge to tuck himself away in a corner. Anything so he could, in whatever small way, remove himself from the situation.

"Emily, my darling sister-in-law has just arrived and I've got to go." A pause. "Shush, dear. We'll figure this out, don't worry." Clara frowned slightly. "No talking like that. The organization will be fine." A light upturning of the lips. "You'll be fantastic. Now I really have to go, Em." Another smile. "Yes, I'll speak with you later." She gave her head a light shake. "Goodbye, Em. I'll call back in a few hours."

She flicked her phone closed and huffed. "Sorry." She rolled her eyes. "Work."

Sammy tapped her foot in mock anger. "You disregarded my lovely entrance for a patient?"

"Afraid not," Clara said guiltily. "That was Doctor Scandlin, one of my colleagues." She gave a rueful smile. "If it was a patient that would have been almost selfless of me."

Sammy smirked and made her way to the bedside, sitting in the now well-used chair. She nodded and adopted a serious tone. "Which we all know you are anything but."

Clara shook her head solemnly. "Most definitely not."

The younger woman gave another eye roll, a small grin on her face before gesturing towards herself. "Well? You asked for my presence and here I am."

"With an added bonus." Clara had turned her attention to Chase, whose efforts to disappear had, apparently, failed miserably.

He gave a small wave, taking another step into the room with all of the reluctance of one walking to his own demise, as Chase had no doubt that he was. "Hello." He took a quick bite at his nail before continuing. "Do you mind that I'm here?"

Clara opened her mouth but Chase began again before she had a chance to respond. "Because if you'd like, I can leave."

She gave him a small, knowing, grin. "Please stay, Rob."

Sammy turned in her seat, sending him that hopeless look once more.

Chase couldn't abandon her when she looked at him like that.

So he let out a sigh, going to the other side of the hospital bed, careful to avoid the tubes connected to Clara's intravenous catheter, as he mentally braced himself for an emotional disaster that he had no obligation to be involved with.

But that he was because they had asked. Because they had placed a small piece of their happiness in Chase's hands and he didn't have the heart to disappoint them. Because he wanted to contribute whatever small amount he could to preserving their happiness.

Mentally, Chase marked the moment as the beginning of his downfall into complete idiocy.

Clara gave him another smile and took in a large breath of air, bringing her attention back to her relative.

"Sammy, I'm not going sugar-coat this for you." She gave the younger woman a severe look. "Perhaps you won't be happy with me for it, but sometimes it's best to hear the harsh and honest truth."

The artist nodded, fidgeting in her seat.

Clara took another breath and Chase prepared himself. More chemo, more radiation. More of her life taken away from her, more concern and time snatched away from the ones who cared for her.

"I'm dying."

Chase's mind went blank.

Sammy blinked. "What?"

Clara continued on as if nothing had been said, still looking at her sister-in-law intently. "The cancer's spread to my lungs."

She leaned forward in her seat, grasping Clara's hand, her eyes overly bright. "Jim, he can fix that though," she said with a note of desperation, pleading. She let out a nervous laugh. "You're not dying." She shook her head to emphasize the point. "You're just sick."

Clara brought her free hand to rest on top of Sammy's. "Sammy," she gave the woman a despair-ridden glance, "there's nothing that Jim can do."

"No!" She stood up abruptly, pulling her hand away, pacing angrily to the side of the bed. "You're not dying!" She stopped, turning towards Clara, tears running freely down her face. "You're sick, but you're going to get better."

"Sammy-"

"No!" She gave her head another violent shake. "I won't hear it. Stop talking like that." She sniffed, running a hand over her cheek to catch some of the tears, "You're going to be fine-"

"Angela," Clara interrupted, sending the woman a serious expression that Chase had never seen before on the psychologist's face.

And with that look and the use of her given name, Sammy deflated, slumping her shoulders and sending her sister a helpless glance. "But you're going to be fine."

"I'm sorry, dear," Clara stared at her directly in the eye, unflinching, "but I'm not."

She shook her head again, sobbing. "But you can't die."

Clara smiled ruefully. "I'm afraid I don't have much of a choice."

Sammy let out a small giggle, which then quickly morphed into more violent sobs.

Clara's brow furrowed in sympathy. "Oh, Sammy." She held her arms open. "Come here."

Huddling in on herself and crying, Sammy quickly did as she was ordered, almost running into the older woman, clinging to her desperately, the flood of tears only increasing.

And Chase watched it all from his side of the hospital bed, praying to the God he still foolishly believed in to let him feel nothing.

He must be certain to remember that he didn't care. Didn't care that this woman who had earned such a large amount of respect was going to die. If she mattered to him, if the thought of losing her meant something to him, it would remind Chase of how quickly, easily, the things he loved could be taken away from him.

He observed Sammy's quavering form, urging himself not to feel.

Apathy was the key. If you didn't care about anything, about anyone, then you could never be hurt, never be disappointed.

Then why did seeing Sammy, her sobs slowly petering away, being held by Clara, making soothing motions across the younger woman's back as the last of her tears were spent, hurt so much?

Chase looked down at his hands passively resting on Clara's bed.

He felt nothing.

If he kept repeating it to himself, he might be able to make it true.

"Sammy," Clara gently pushed the woman away from her after some moments of silence. "I need you to do some things for me, all right?"

Sammy nodded, wiping her cheeks with the back of her hands, "Anything."

Clara raised a finger to her chin. "Now I have to think about how I could best exploit that."

Sammy let out a snotty laugh, still running her fingers under her eyes, sending the older woman a severe look. "You're not funny." She sniffed, her lips still upturned. "You're not funny at all."

Clara grinned. "I'm hilarious and you know it."

The smile disappeared. "This situation isn't hilarious, Clara."

"I know, dear." She looked up at the younger woman, forcing a pained smile. "But when you have to choose between laughter and tears, you need to pick the option that will cause the least amount of pain, for everyone." She brought her gaze to her bed sheets, smoothing them briefly before giving her head a slight shake. "Anyway." She turned back to her sister-in-law. "I'm going to have to spend the night here in order to get some treatment." She smirked. "And given these new developments and Mark being Mark, he's probably going to want to stay with me."

She sent Chase a sardonic look, forcing the doctor out of his intense scrutiny of the folds of Clara's comforter. "The curse of the dutiful husband," she muttered before bringing her attention back to the other woman staring at her intently. "Could you go to our house," she waved a dismissive hand as Sammy opened her mouth, "use your key," Sammy's mouth closed, "and pack some bags for us?" She had adopted an earnest expression. "That way Mark can come here straight after work? And would you mind closing down shop while you're there? Giving the dogs food and turning off lights and the like?"

Sammy nodded eagerly, almost frantically.

"And by the time you get there Matt will be out of school." Clara's eyes followed Sammy as she stood up from her seat. "Would you mind picking him up for us?"

She shook her head. "Not at all." She began to head towards the door.

"And please," Clara snatched the younger woman's hand, forcing Sammy to stop, to look at her, "don't tell him about," she paused, "this."

Chase almost saw Sammy shiver.

"I need to do it."

Another frantic shake of her head. "I won't."

Clara released her sister's hand. "Thank you, Sammy." She gave her a grateful smile. "Truly."

The tall woman nodded, bending her head, a hand coming to her eyes, hiding them from view. Chase heard a small sniff before Sammy's head snapped back up suddenly, a smile on her lips. "Well. I'm off then." She quickly went back to Clara, kissing her on the cheek before going to Chase, giving him similar treatment. She didn't look at either of them as she pecked their skin, seeming to want to leave the room as quickly as possible and with as little fuss as she could manage, her eyes overly bright. "I'll be back in a few hours, the squirt in tow."

And with that she was out of the room, making her way speedily down the hallway.

Leaving Chase alone with a dying woman he cared nothing for.

Nothing at all.

The silence that followed was accusing. Trying to pull from Chase, pull emotion that he had long since abandoned as worthless.

It was sad, that Clara was going to die. But his life would not be greatly altered with her absence. Others would suffer far more than he. Mark and Matt, Sammy. Cameron.

Cameron. He did not envy his colleague the shock she was about to experience. The renewed and familiar pain.

Yes. It was very sad that Clara was going to die, that people whom he knew would be negatively affected by it.

But he would be fine, because he didn't care about Clara. About them.

Sad, but a detached sadness. A safe sadness.

Chase, however, found himself questioning just how safe he really was. Because detachment was supposed to make it hurt less, and this had the sharp and threatening sting of true, undiluted, pain.

And that pure hurt made Chase feel more unsafe than he had in years.

He needed to leave.

He looked up to Clara, muttering a quick, "I'm sorry," before backing away from her, making way for the door. Trying to escape.

"Rob."

He froze mid-stride, a mere foot from the door, almost flinching at her voice.

He reluctantly turned to her, noting her frail features, her scarf-covered head, her pale skin.

Why hadn't he seen that she was dying sooner?

Clara locked him in place with her stare, her intensity. "Keeping her busy will only work for so long."

Chase frowned.

"Sammy," she said, gesturing towards the door that the woman had left minutes before. "She'll fool herself into thinking she's fine so long as she has something to keep her occupied. To keep her from thinking." She gave a sad, fond, smile. "But eventually there won't be anything left to distract her with and she won't be able to avoid," she paused, "this, any more."

She looked at Chase directly in the eye. "Please, be there when she faces it."

It was a plea. Please, comfort her when I won't be able to. Be there for her when I die. Please stay.

And because she had asked, because he wanted to do whatever he could to ease her mind, to make her happy, to prevent Sammy from feeling more pain that she had to, he gave a quick and curt nod.

He then turned on his heel, heading for the door once more.

"Rob."

Frozen again, he halted his progress, glancing over his shoulder, hand on the cool metal of the sliding door.

She was giving him that stare again. "You can do this." She conveyed every sense of utter confidence in her gaze. "Don't run away."

Please stay.

Chase was in way over his head.

"I'm not going anywhere."

Clara smiled widely. "I didn't think you would be."

And Chase believed her when she said it, suddenly realizing that he would miss this unquestioning faith she had in him. "I really am sorry."

She let out a small sigh. "Me too."

---

Foreman flung open the office door, frowning when the form in the chair across the room didn't stir. "House."

His boss shifted slightly, rolling his shoulders while keeping his eyes firmly closed and his feet carefully perched on his desk.

"House."

The man yawned.

Foreman let out an irritated sigh and resisted the urge to scowl. "Greg."

House opened up a single eyelid and gave his employee a disapproving look with it. "That's 'Big G' to you."

"Right." Foreman rolled his eyes as he walked further into the office, making a conscious effort not to search for something to stab the diagnostician with. The satisfaction wouldn't be worth the shiv comments that were bound to follow as House slowly bled to death.

Pity.

The neurologist sighed and began to make his way to the Diagnostics office. "In case you're interested, Mrs. Larson has just been released."

House stretched in his seat. "Who?"

Foreman stopped his progress into the next room and blinked. "Our last patient."

"Oh, another one of those." House reached out to his desk, snagging his Gameboy before slouching back into his chair. "Joy to the world; another innocent saved." He spared Foreman a glance. "I would get more excited, but I've got space monkeys to kill. Consumes a lot of energy. Saving up." He furrowed his brow and leaned forward in his seat, looking into the next room. "Where's the rest of the Scooby Gang?"

"If they've got any sense, avoiding you."

"Those two? Never. They love me. Really. Taken to calling me 'Dear Daddy Greg'."

Foreman snorted at the statement, but was nonetheless rather concerned by the absence of the rest of the team. It was more than a little odd that his colleagues were both out. Chase didn't like drawing attention to himself by arriving late and Cameron didn't want to seem anything but dependable. The fact that they were both missing was slightly disturbing, now that it had been brought to Foreman's attention.

"You," House pressed a button repeatedly on his console, "you would skip work just to avoid your boss." He turned away from the game to send the neurologist an earnest look. "If you could muster up the courage to defy me, that is." He shrugged and went back to his game. "I understand your hesitation. I'm terribly intimidating."

"Yes. Very. I'm quaking in my boots."

"If by 'boots' you mean 'several hundred dollar shoes'."

"They're sneakers," Foreman muttered as he began to head for the office again.

"Halt, minion."

Foreman raised an eyebrow and turned back to the man, decidedly annoyed. "Do I act like your minion?" He was not House's tool. Wasn't some mindless drone he could push around as he pleased.

"You stop when I demand it. Now if only I can get you to play dead." House sent the younger doctor an obnoxious smile as he peeked his head over his desk, eyeing Foreman's shoes, glancing at his own and then sending the neurologist an offended look. "Copy-cat." He then brought his attention back to his game.

"You know," Foreman commented dryly as he pushed open the door to Diagnostics, choking back anger. "In between the killing of the space monkeys, you might want to keep an eye out for a new patient."

His boss stared blankly at him.

Foreman sighed. "Just try being productive for once. You might enjoy it."

House shook his head. "Nah. Space monkeys are way cooler than sick people."

The neurologist sighed. "So you're not even going to go looking for a case?"

"They usually find me anyway." House gave a dismissive shrug. "Like dogs running towards a soundless whistle, really. You don't understand why, but it's damn nifty when they come bounding towards you."

Foreman barely suppressed his look of disgust.

People were dying, people House could easily save if he chose to, but instead he was fiddling with his game, unconcerned. Foreman could be doing something helpful, could be saving lives, and instead he was going to sift through paperwork, searching for a case, a person, that House found worthy of his time. For all that the man was excellent at what he did, he had no appreciation or humility for the power he held. Most doctors went into medicine to help people. House went into medicine to gloat.

And Foreman was expected to watch and listen to it, eager and humbled to be in the presence of the arrogant ass in front of him.

In that moment Eric hated Matt, a bit, for unconsciously urging him to make the worst decision of his life.

He had told Rustle no. A month before the deadline, no less. Had turned down the best opportunity to come his way in years because some boy, (a smart boy, yes, but just a boy nonetheless) had shoved notions of medical integrity into his head. Doctors, in the end, despite their motives, helped people. That was their job, their career. The why should have been insignificant in comparison to the what.

But it wasn't.

The why, the intent, changed everything. The why was what separated great doctors from common ones. The why was the difference between an acclaimed physician of great skill from a respected doctor of impeccable skill, with the trust, support and confidence of physicians and patients alike. I didn't understand that sentence at all. Acclaim, while heady and intoxicating in its own way, wasn't the stuff of legends. Acclaim did not make a doctor an authority in his area of expertise. Did not send a physician from an unknown to an esteemed associate. Acclaim was fleeting and insubstantial.

Respect, however, was priceless and eternal.

It was why House hadn't been sent to jail yet. How he could get away with the things he did and still have a reputation to fall back on that was widely praised throughout the country. House was brilliant and, in an odd way, admirable in his determination to discover what was wrong with his patients. To treat them in the way he saw fit, despite protests to his methods of doing so. It didn't make him well-liked or popular, but it did give him the grudging respect of every one of his fellows. And that, reluctant respect for a man you despise but admire, was more powerful and invaluable than brief congratulations or praise.

Turning around the Neurology Department at Princeton-Plainsboro would have been impressive, no one would have been able to deny that. And for a day or two Foreman could picture his name on the lips of every influential doctor in the business. And then he would have gotten a collective pat on the head from his superiors and then gone back to being ignored.

Foreman would never be content with being overlooked.

And Matt, in all of his innocent questioning, his concern for his mother, his unbridled curiosity, had somehow made Foreman believe that House was one of the doctors who, despite all appearances, had earned and deserved the respect of the medical community. That if Foreman could swallow his contempt, he might be able to learn how House had gained the high opinions of others in their profession.

It had, momentarily, in the thrill of finding a new, clearer, path to what Foreman wanted, slipped his mind that House was a miserable bastard who didn't care about getting patients better. He cared about being right. About being able to shove his brilliance into the faces of all who doubted him. The reason why others respected him was because they had no choice but to, resentment just as powerful as the admiration they felt towards him.

If House's concern was truly the people that he treated, he wouldn't accept each new case with such an obvious reluctance. Wouldn't have to be blackmailed, coaxed and prodded into helping those who came to him. And although House did happily lie, cheat and steal for his patients, that was a far cry from true integrity. It wasn't a grand sacrifice or risk on his part. It was bragging. It was his display of what he could get away with simply by being him. And although these actions might have benefited others, that wasn't the sole motivation.

And the why, the intent, changed everything.

Foreman eyed his boss with growing animosity.

Getting the man to do his job, to practice what he had spent decades studying, was a chore. To treat the patients that House sold his soul for, he had to be bribed, pleaded with, intrigued by some overly bizarre symptom or interested due to some obscure factor entirely unrelated to the illness. And nothing less would do. Instead of being able to spend his time honing his skills, Foreman was forced to humor a grown child, too self-absorbed to recognize that he wasn't the only one left with nothing to do but play games when finding a case didn't suit his fancy. The entire department suffered when House didn't want to work. Or when House did want to work, but could find no case satisfactory to his high standards. And then, when a case was finally found, he sent his highly trained team out on wild goose-chases to find the extra lie, the foreign visit, the affair.

Prying into the personal lives of patients wasn't the job of doctors. There were other, more specialized, personnel to perform those tasks, which would then leave Foreman, Chase and Cameron to do what they had been trained to.

But House wouldn't have any of that. He used them as doctors, lab-rats and sounding-boards from which he could bounce his own ideas.

Foreman let out an exasperated sigh, House clicking merrily at his game system, unconcerned with Foreman's continued presence. "Why did you hire me, House?"

The man frowned, but didn't look away from his game. "I thought we had gone over this, Eric dear." A quick upward glance. "Because you know how to bust caps and jack cars. Very helpful in today's medical world." He nodded solemnly as he looked back to the system.

Foreman crossed his arms over his chest and eyed his boss searchingly, ignoring the comments. "We spend more of our days waiting for a case to show up that will interest you than actually working. And then when we do get a case, we spend almost as much time out of the hospital as in it. Why waste the money? Why waste the resources? Why waste your time putting up with three younger doctors when you could just as easily hire mindless goons to do the work?"

The older man smirked. "The fact that you don't think I see you as a mindless goon is adorably optimistic of you."

Foreman refused to be deterred by the insult. "Why did you hire us House?"

He shrugged carelessly. "I hired Cameron because of her dolled-up face and Chase because his daddy asked me really nicely. You're reason's no more shameful than theirs."

"Those are the easy reasons, not the real ones."

House looked away from his Gameboy and raised an eyebrow. "Are they, now?"

Was he... amused?

"You're a selfish nosy bastard, House."

The older man turned off his game, setting it on his desk and leaning back in his chair, obviously suppressing a grin. "Thank you."

"But you're not an idiot."

"Obviously."

"You wouldn't hire someone because of their looks, family or personal history. And you wouldn't take on three doctors without a logical reason for it. Maybe someone else would have hired Cameron just to stare at her, hired Chase because of his dad." He sent House a penetrating stare. "But not you. Those facts would intrigue you, but they wouldn't make you willing to spend years of your life humoring doctors you thought had no potential."

House's smirk widened. "You underestimate the power of my curiosity."

"No."

House's eyebrows shot up again.

"I'm reminding you of how much you value your own time." Foreman smiled sardonically. "You wouldn't bother yourself with a case if you thought that it couldn't be solved. You won't waste your time training doctors you didn't find medically worthy."

"Is that what you want me to tell you, little Eric?" He adopted a doe-eyed expression. "That you're medically worthy?"

Foreman nearly snorted. He didn't need anyone to tell him that he was a good doctor. "I want you to tell me the truth."

"I have," House said, staring at his employee without a hint sarcasm. "You just don't want to believe it."

Foreman shook his head, containing his fury. "So that's it?" He let a bitter laugh escape his lips. "You hired me because I'm a juvenile delinquent?"

"No no no... Hardly. You were a good applicant. The criminal record wasn't the sole reason I hired you." He paused and tilted his head. "Although, it was the largest."

Foreman let out an incredulous laugh.

"I can't believe I chose this over my own department," he muttered, giving the door another push, too infuriated to continue to associate with his boss.

"Oh, so you have chosen then?" House remarked dryly from his seat, pulling up his Gameboy once more. "And a month early too. How peculiar." He let out a wistful sigh. "Shame I couldn't see the look on Rustle's face when you turned him down."

Foreman turned back to the man, shocked. "You knew?"

"Of course I knew. I know everything." He tilted his head. "Except how Cuddy gets her funbags to stay so perky."

"How long?"

"Have I known everything? Since birth, really."

Foreman glowered.

"Oh, you meant about the job offer." He made a show of contemplating the question. "About a week after Rustle made it to you." He smiled. "Watching you agonize was great fun. You put on a good show. Not as good as Chase running away from Cameron every time they're within twenty feet of one another, but impressive nonetheless." He gave the neurologist a distracted thumbs-up as he continued to stare at his game. "Keep up the good work."

Foreman gaped at the man. "And you didn't say anything?"

"And ruin your attempts to be stealthy? Never."

"You didn't care at all whether I stayed or went? Didn't try to convince me to remain in your Department?"

"Nope. There are plenty of other doctors around who would join my team in a heartbeat."

Foreman's mouth dropped open.

"I know it's hard to believe, Eric, but your leaving would be no great loss." He brought a hand to his chest. "Although my emotional suffering." He whistled. "I would mourn for months."

The neurologist was reduced to furious head shaking, walking back into House's office. "I can't believe you!"

House didn't glance up from his Gameboy. "You should. It's true. I would cry."

Foreman walked over to his boss's desk, snatched the game away from him and scowled.

House's eyes flashed dangerously.

"If you don't actually want me here then I have no reason to stay." Foreman tossed the game back onto House's desk before throwing his hands up into the air. "I passed up the opportunity of a lifetime to be in your department under the false assumption that you wanted to teach me something."

"Whether or not I teach you something doesn't mean that you'll learn from it." He folded his hands and threw them behind his head, smirking. "And if I don't teach you anything, that doesn't mean that you won't glean some knowledge from me anyway."

Foreman scowled.

House noted his employee's distaste and gave an eye roll. "Stop whining. You made the choice." He smirked. "Twice, by the way. I haven't forgotten Mr. California." He shrugged. "Now live with it."

The neurologist scoffed as his nostrils flared. "I threw away the perfect opportunity to advance my career for an arrogant jerk who doesn't give a damn about the people he works with or treats." He brought a hand to his brow and House gave another dramatic eye roll. "Forgive me if it takes me a while to stop kicking myself for it."

"Oh would you stop already."

Foreman frowned. "Stop what? Regretting my decision? Calling myself an idiot? Despising you?" He snorted. "Going to take a bit more than a simple command to get me to stop with any of those!"

"No, that's all fine." A head tilt. "Probably good for you too." He nodded sagely. "Humility is a virtue."

"So is hating you."

He shrugged. "In many cultures." House smirked. "I don't care if you hate me, and I really don't care if you hate yourself. I'm just annoyed by the fact that you continue to lie to yourself."

The neurologist let out a snort. "Right. Staying in your department wasn't a mistake. It was the best move of my career, really." He crossed his arms in front of his chest again. "I just like dramatics so I thought I would storm around the office for a bit."

"No." House stared at Foreman as if he were an utter moron, adopting the tone of one trying to explain something to a toddler. "The decision you made was decidedly stupid." House swiveled in his chair, grabbing his tennis ball. "At least you're intelligent enough to recognize that."

Foreman said nothing, containing anger.

"What bothers me is that you paint yourself out to be some self-sacrificing saint when you're really anything but." House shrugged. "As fun as it is to play pretend, you take the game far too seriously for it to be amusing."

The younger doctor frowned. "I never said-"

"But you think it." House smirked.

"Right." A snort. "Doctor Gregory House. Doctor, mind reader, and friend to the animals."

House shrugged. "You know I'm right. As much as you complain about how cruel I am to patients, as cold and exploitative as I am to my coworkers, you're just as bad, if not worse."

Foreman chuckled bitterly. "Only in your mind, House, would giving a damn make me as caustic as you."

Foreman turned again to the door, tired of House's game, ready to down as much coffee as he could to prep him for an evening of brandy at home.

House had other plans. "That's just it though," he yelled after Foreman, standing up from behind his desk and following the man into the next room. "I don't care and I recognize it. I don't try to dress it up as concern and parade my 'caring' in front of others."

"So I'm faking, am I?" Foreman had turned on his heel, glaring at the man. "When I go out of my way to learn patients' names, to care about their mental health as well as their physical health. It's all an act." He laughed bitterly. "And let's not forget the way I treat Chase and Cameron. The decency is just so I can better insult them later, when they're least expecting it."

House rolled his eyes. "You're acting the way you know a doctor should, because you know that's what people want and expect from you." He flopped down into a chair, tossing the tennis ball as he chanted, "Doctors should be caring, considerate and have a personal connection with their patients. The more they show these attributes, the more people like them. And you need people to like you so that you can use them for your own means."

"Why do you assume that it's an act?" Foreman remained standing, scowling at his boss from the center of the room. "Why can't my concern be genuine?"

"Because if you did," he paused dramatically, "_genuinely_, care, you wouldn't throw a hissy fit every time I sent you out to look through buildings." He sent the neurologist a pointed stare. "You wouldn't mind looking for cases for me to take because it would mean that you were helping someone, defending the defenseless." Another toss of the tennis ball. "In essence, you would be Cameron." He caught it and looked at the younger man, a slightly amused grin on his face. "Instead, you get pissed off because I'm wasting your time. Which is a fine enough reason to be upset for any normal person. But you're a doctor, and you're not supposed to be mad for these, selfish, reasons. So you dress up your irritation, make everyone else and yourself believe that it's on the patient's behalf, and stew in your righteous anger."

House shrugged. "It's all fun and good to watch it all, but you've managed to convince yourself that you're on some moral high-horse. Deluding yourself into thinking that you're somehow better than me." House looked at Foreman seriously. "And you should know better than to try to make me think less of myself." Another toss of the ball. "You can lie to everyone else, Foreman, and let them believe that you really are that selfless. But I'm not going to let you get away with lying to yourself." A smirk. "Ruins the entertainment of your horror once you reach the realization."

Foreman said nothing, staring at his boss blankly.

He wasn't like that.

House gave a small chuckle. "It's funny, really." He focused his attention on his tennis ball. "I don't care, you pretend to care, Chase pretends not to care and Cameron cares enough for all of us." He sniffed dramatically, sending Foreman a heartfelt look. "We complete each other."

Foreman ignored him. "I'm not like that."

House raised an eyebrow. "Really?" He leaned forward in his seat. "Do you think about patients after they leave here? Worry about their lives, how their illness affects every aspect of it?"

He smirked when Foreman remained silent. "How much do you know about Mrs. Larson? How old are her kids? How long has she been married?"

The neurologist shook his head. "That information is completely irrelevant to her treatment-"

House held up a finger. "But not to her life, which you care about, remember?"

Foreman scowled.

His boss smiled smugly. "You care about people, patients, only as far as you can use them to further yourself." He shrugged. "Take Cameron and Chase. I see what you do. Try to 'protect' them from me. It's cute, really, but you're not doing it for them."

Foreman raised a brow silently.

"You're doing it so that you can reaffirm your delusion. You play the role of the big brother, telling Cameron to cut her hair, trying to distract me from tormenting her. You stand up for Chase when he won't stand up for himself, try to convince him how heartless I really am. Again, cute, but you do it because it makes you feel better about yourself." House smirked and looked Foreman dead in the eye. "Because you're atoning."

And in that instant Foreman knew that House was well aware of Michael. Of the gangs and the robberies, the criminal record and the Foreman family's shame. He probably even knew that on the night Eric was arrested Mike had been apprehended with him. Knowing House, he had most likely deduced the truth as well.

Foreman hadn't meant to steal anything, but Michael had. And when he had discovered how close Michael was to being locked away and not being let back out, at the age of fourteen, Eric had taken the blame.

Because family always came first.

He had failed his younger brother in too many ways to count. Hadn't kept him from the life that Michael was so much better than, hadn't been able to convince him that he had the potential to be more than what was expected of him. He had failed as a brother, as a protector. At keeping Michael safe from harm.

And yes, Cameron and Chase were younger than him. They did seem like they needed more guidance than they realized, and he might have tried to help them every now and then, to keep them from getting into trouble, to keep them from harm.

But that had nothing to do with Mike. Wasn't for Foreman. Wasn't to help him atone for his brother.

It wasn't.

"You're full of shit."

House gave a knowing smirk. "You only say that because you know I'm right."

They stared at one another, House with the same smug, knowing expression on his face, Foreman standing above him, determined denial laced across every feature.

He wasn't like House.

And this staring might have gone on for some time, if it weren't for the small body that hurled itself at Foreman. "You lied!"

Foreman let out a surprised grunt as Matt ran into him, the boy's fists pounding on his chest.

"You said," gasp, "that he would do everything he could!" More swats. "You swore!"

"Matt!" Eric gently grabbed the boy's wrists, pulling them away from himself, stopping him from landing more blows. "Matt, what did I swear? What happened?"

"She's going to die!" Matt deflated, angry yells reducing themselves to small, sobbing, whimpers. "You said that he was the best, but she's still going to die."

Oh no.

Foreman looked to House, still seated in one of the chairs around the table. At first glance he seemed miraculously unaffected, expression blank, posture relaxed. It was only the fact that he held the tennis ball limply in his hands, that he had his eyes glued to the small boy, that indicated any sort of shock.

Foreman turned back to the boy. "Matt, I'm sure that Wilson did everything he could-"

Anger re-infused itself into Matt's tone. "'Everything he could' wasn't enough, and you made me believe that it would be!" He dissolved into more tears.

"Stop."

The eleven year old quieted his sobs and looked up to the diagnostician, who was quickly standing up from his chair, hobbling to the two of them.

"You know it's not Wilson's fault." He stared at Matt seriously. "Otherwise you would be getting your snot all over him. And you're not dumb enough to honestly blame Foreman." He stopped in front of Clara's son, not an inch of him sympathetic or condescending. "You're not doing this because you think it's justified. You're doing it because it's an easy way to make yourself feel better."

He looked intently at the boy. "Grief can do many things to an intelligent person, but it should never make him stupid."

Matt did nothing for a moment, finally inclining his head mutely.

House gave a curt nod back, turning to his employee. "I'll leave this to you, Doctor Sentiment. I have an emotional crisis to interrupt."

And with that House limped the rest of the way out of the office, heading towards the elevator.

"I'm sorry."

Foreman looked down, Matt backing away from him slowly, Foreman releasing his hands.

"I shouldn't have-" He sighed and glanced up at the doctor.

"It just hurts." More tears started flowing. "It hurts a lot." He rubbed angrily at his eyes, even as he was reduced to full-fledged sobbing once more.

Foreman knew what a doctor should do in this situation. A doctor would maintain a professional distance while remaining sympathetic, reassure the boy that the time his mother had left would be made as comfortable as possible, that they were doing everything they could to make her end easier. Cold-comfort to a child losing his mother, but it was the best that a doctor would be able to offer.

That was what he should do.

What House would expect him to do.

Instead, he placed a hand on Matt's shoulder, squeezing it. "I know it does."

Matt nodded miserably, looking up at the doctor in front of him and abruptly flinging his arms around him, sobbing into Foreman's shirt.

And Eric found that he didn't care about his hundred dollar silk tie as he hesitantly patted the boy's back.


	12. Drenched, pt two

**Drenched**

**Summary: **House enjoys the company of a patient- obviously signaling the apocalypse, Wilson is getting a divorce, Chase is falling head over heels, Foreman's thinking of leaving the team and Cameron's sister has cancer. At least it's not raining. Yet.

**Disclaimer: **When I was young and impressionable, I thought to myself, "One day you shall create a TV show! A brilliant TV show that shall combine great characters, fantastic actors and medical stuff to become the best TV show ever! (And throwing in RSL would be pretty awesome too.)" Sadly, that day is not today. House belongs to David Shore and Fox. "It Doesn't Get Much Better Than This" is Nicole Burdette's.

**Author's Note:** I am slow and horrible. shame But looky! The chapter is here now! –points and displays enticingly- Eh, eh?

A million thanks, once more, to the brilliant **LastScorpion**, who despite the fact that the cookies I continue to bake are entirely electronical and, as such, completely lack all of the awesome things that make cookies great (sugar, chocolate, yumminess), continues to aid me. She's my hero!

Medical stuff isn't quite made up on the top of my head, but it's close to it. Any corrections or tips would be most appreciated.

Oh, and even thought I haven't mentioned it in the past chapters, I still don't know anything about General Hospital either. So to all fans of that show who happen to read this, my apologies.

This story is cannon-compatible up to "Skin Deep."

Reviews/Reviewers are loved.

Thank you and enjoy!

---

**Chapter Eight: Drenched, Part Two**

_I want water up to our waists  
And I want to be drenched by the rain  
Up to our ankles with holes in our shoes.  
I want to think your thoughts  
Because they are mine.  
I want only what's urgent to you.  
I want to get in the way of the barriers.  
-Nicole Burdette_

---

Foreman was annoying.

This was no great revelation, but that didn't make him any less annoying.

House couldn't deny that the neurologist was a good doctor, but his constant need for validation was becoming more than a little bit tiresome. Generally, the man was smart enough to steer away from House when such matters were at the forefront of his mind, but on occasion he slipped, providing his boss with ample opportunity to mock and criticize him.

Admittedly, House had been a bit more harsh than usual this time. Typically he tried to keep his taunts limited to Foreman's professional failings, where the doctor's ego had been, not always without reason, bloated the most. It was always amusing to remind the neurologist that he hadn't gotten into the department based on skill, but on an unfortunate mistake from his past that he had tried, so very desperately, to leave behind him.

Not to say that Foreman wasn't right. He was. House would've been an utter moron to hire Foreman because he was a delinquent, Chase because of his father or Cameron because of her looks.

But there was no reason Foreman needed to know that.

House was not going to stroke and preen his fellows so that they could feel better about themselves. He wasn't going to offer undeserved compliments or let mistakes slide by unnoticed. And he wasn't going to allow them to, say, turn to him for reassurance, subconscious or not, when they felt that they had potentially ruined their careers forever.

Theoretically, if the situation were ever to come up, that is.

House did not believe in coddling. Didn't want his employees to think that he was happy with them 'just the way they were.' The minute they became comfortable was the moment that they would cease to improve themselves -when they would feel that they had impressed him enough to stop thinking, making them useless as diagnosticians.

And when they did that House would have to fire them. Which, he thought, would have been fine, if it weren't for the fact that he would have to replace them.

He really did hate the application process.

So, House did his best not to let his employees know that they were all competent doctors. That they did, on occasion, serve as assets during the diagnostic process. If they weren't aware of these things already, House certainly wasn't going to be the one to tell them.

But, while in the middle of destroying his neurologist's ego, the man had, very foolishly, touched House's Gameboy. In anger, no less.

No one messed with House's things without his explicit permission. They were sacred, almost holy, objects that provided hours of entertainment and that were, most importantly, _his_.

So, House promptly abandoned the battle with the neurologist's professional aptitude and turned to something far more vulnerable to his attacks; Foreman's character.

Of course, soon after the man had been sufficiently humbled and House had just begun to enjoy himself, a screaming and wailing youth had delivered a death sentence. And that was far more interesting than Foreman's shattered sense of self.

Interesting and more bothersome than House was comfortable with admitting, either to himself or the general population.

People died every day. He _saw _people die every day. But they rarely held any significance to Greg personally. Sure, he always lost a few patients each year, his grandparents had long since been laid to rest, his dog had been hit by a car when he was eight.

But Clara wasn't his patient, with the comfort of obligatory emotional distance, wasn't a family member, with the comfort of forced emotional distance (House's doing. His grandmother had tried to get him to play for her one too many times) and wasn't a canine.

She was a person who he had shared far too many Skittles with to pass off as easily as he would have liked.

Really, his own fault for forgetting the bonding power of Skittles.

Most foolish.

So now, as he hobbled his way to the elevator, he was interested, for more than mere curiosity's sake, and he didn't have nearly enough information to charge into the situation fully prepared.

He needed to hit someone up for information.

And since Wilson wouldn't give it to him and he didn't want to receive it from Cameron (who would want to voluntarily subject themselves to the weepiness she was bound to exude?), House decided to search for the next best source.

Twenty minutes later House was seated happily in the corner of Exam Room Three, Chase shooting irritated glances over his shoulder periodically as he examined a middle-aged, balding man.

"I know that it may be a bit hard to notice, House, but I'm with a patient."

House tapped his cane on the ground and shrugged. "He can stay. I don't mind."

Chase scowled.

House turned to the patient. "Do you care?"

The man gave a mindless blink.

"See? He doesn't mind either."

Chase turned to face his boss with a sigh. "What do you want?"

Originally, he wanted to know Clara's condition. But now, after finding Chase in the last place House had expected (Blondie kills a patient once and he never wants to come across one again. Talk about irrational), House suddenly found himself with a different set of questions in mind.

He narrowed his eyes. "Why you aren't holding hands and wiping fevered brows?"

Chase rolled his eyes and turned back to the simpering bald man. He didn't seem at all shocked by House's knowledge of Clara's situation. "I'm not needed or wanted right now." He sent House a significant glance. "It's a family thing. People with tact and a sense of what's appropriate are aware of this."

House tilted his head. "Are you implying that I lack manners, Doctor Chase?"

"Never," he said as he flashed a light in the man's eyes. "Just throwing out random comments to hear the sound of my own voice." He quickly turned off the flashlight and stuck it in his coat pocket, giving the patient one of his patented charming smiles. "You've got the flu, Mr. Martin. The best thing to do is go home and drink lots of fluids." He made some, likely meaningless, marks in the man's chart. "Stay off your feet for a few days and you should be fine."

Mr. Martin's eyes widened and he simpered a bit. "Are you sure it's just the flu?"

House sighed loudly and with much irritation. "It's the flu." He glared as the man all but trembled in front of him. "Go home. Eat soup." He gave a, clearly dismissive, wave of his hand. "Bye."

The man quickly stood up from the exam table and scampered out of the room.

House felt a brief moment of pride before Chase distracted him.

"Why are you here?"

"To annoy you."

Chase raised an eyebrow.

"Do I need a better reason?"

"No." The intensivist inclined his head slightly before sending House a smirk. "But you have one."

If House was being honest with himself, he would have admitted that he was slightly bothered by Chase's insight.

Fortunately, House made a habit of lying to his conscience and happily ignored the comment.

"Tell me about Clara's status."

Chase gave another eye roll and re-opened the chart in his hand, chewing his pen. "Ask Wilson."

"Wilson won't tell me." He grinned at his employee. "You will."

The younger doctor looked up from the paperwork and raised a brow. "What makes you so sure of that?"

"Because I know that you want nothing more than to see me happy."

Chase snorted.

"And because you know that I'll find out sooner or later anyway."

The pen was extracted from Chase's mouth as he sighed and sent a decidedly annoyed stare in House's direction.

Which, of course, translated from wombat, meant that House was about to get his way.

"The cancer's metastasized to her lungs." He gave an artful flick of his wrist and dropped both file and pen onto the exam table. "She has three months. Maybe four."

"Huh." He tapped his cane on the tile floor as he thought allowed. "So then she really is dying."

House wasn't entirely sure what he thought about that yet. But, if the sudden and unexplainable weight that washed over him was any indication, it wasn't good.

"What?" Chase asked as he took the other chair in the room, smirking at his boss. "You thought it was a prank?"

House mentally shook himself and let out a dramatic sigh. "You know what those forty-year-old women will do to get attention."

Chase just smiled and waited for a real answer.

It was so much more fun when they resisted. So much more gratifying when they fought back. So much more useful. Resistance provided a better distraction than amused indulgence. A more helpful vice to, however briefly, allow him not to think.

He missed his Vicodin.

He gave himself another shake. "As a general rule I don't blindly accept every word to come out of a hysterical child's mouth."

There was a barely noticeable tensing of Chase's shoulders, a detail House might have missed had the other doctor not instantly slouched his posture once more. "Matt? Is he okay?" Asked in a strained tone of forced clam. A poor deception to hide authentic worry behind.

"No idea." House narrowed his eyes. "Why do you care?"

He shrugged as he stood up from his seat, gathering the file and pen. "Just curious."

"You don't get curious." House studied his intensivist intently, eyes widening in anticipation. Here was a worthy diversion. "You said that you wouldn't be drying any tears now. Not that you wouldn't at all."

Chase turned to the other man, a quick expression of panic flashing across his features.

House smiled. For all that the man tried so desperately to keep himself from being entangled in anything so sympathetic as concern, he had allowed himself not only to fall under the charms of an, admittedly, very attractive woman, but her entire gene pool as well.

House did not like relationships.

Well, House didn't like people.

Relationships were hard to maintain when one party spends most of the time while with the other contemplating whether to hit them in the head with a cane or in their groin. (Groin usually won.) He didn't like people, didn't trust people and found no pleasure in losing any iota of control. Emotional bouds were not conducive to assuaging these dislikes, so he refused to take part in them.

Chase, on the other hand, avoided relationships because he was afraid of them.

Although the man had no particular hatred towards humanity, he was just as trusting as House when it came to the integrity of the populace at large. Rowan had made certain of that with his 'vanishing father' routine.

But Chase was far worse off than Greg.

Chase, despite everything, liked people. And not just liked, but the closer he came to an individual the more responsibility he felt in regard to their well-being and happiness. The more intimate the relationship, the greater his need was to make sure that the other person was content.

After all, a happy drunk was a safer drunk, one that would be far easier for a fifteen year-old to manage than if she had been upset.

And since Chase still put such a large portion of his self-worth into every person he cared for, he gave them the power to hurt him.

House had expected his first underling to be smarter.

But he wasn't, and his happiness was now directly tied to that of a dying woman, her son and her (very hot) sister-in-law.

House sighed, giving Chase a disappointed look. "Robbie." He shook his head and _tisk_ed at the intensivist. "I thought Mommy and Daddy taught you better that that."

Chase's face was disturbingly blank as he stared at his boss. In unnerved the diagnostician, more than he was willing to admit.

"Goodbye, House." Chase turned back towards the patient table, reaching for another file.

A clear dismissal.

And House was not one to be brushed aside so easily.

He stood up from his stool and limped closer to the Aussie "You're not here out of courtesy." He smirked. "You're running away from the situation while you still can." A pause. "Because you know what's coming."

Chase's attention remained firmly locked on the files in front of him.

House continued to grin. "You're not being polite." His smirk widened. "You're being a coward."

"House," the intensivist snapped, glaring up at House, angry. "Enough."

And with that he strode out of the room at a pace House was not going to attempt to match. He might have been able to pull off a nice hobble-jog, but he could tell that Chase's entertainment quota had been exceeded.

So sensitive, his intensivist.

House shrugged to the empty room. "I only speak the truth."

With a sigh he exited, making his way to the elevator, mentally preparing himself for the sobbing masses.

If he hadn't been so curious (and just curious), he would have avoided the emotional hot-spot that had become Clara's room all together.

But curiosity was a powerful force.

When he finally reached room 213 he saw Wilson keeping vigil in front of the glass wall, hands crossed over his chest and staring into the room with a stern expression.

House smirked as he came up next to him. "Have the common folk displeased you, Boy Wonder?"

Wilson looked up to the man and gave a lopsided grin. "Always."

House nodded. "I figured."

They both turned back to the scene taking place in the next room. Sammy was seated in a corner of the room, saying nothing and staring at a wall. Samson was pacing in front of the bed, hand to his brow and muttering franticly. And Clara was talking on her cell phone, while simultaneously stroking Matt's hair as the boy cried, firmly latched to her side on the bed.

"This is too much."

House glanced at the oncologist. "You mean all of the disgustingly sappy concern flowing about? Couldn't agree more."

Wilson sent his friend a glare. "No. The concern is a good thing. It's the hysterics and constant work I'm worried about."

The diagnostician returned his gaze to the room, eyeing the scene with interest. He looked back to Wilson. "The phone?"

The doctor gave a helpless nod. "Work. She hasn't stopped planning, plotting, comforting and talking since she got out of my office five hours ago."

"Five hours?" House whistled. "Impressive."

"But not healthy." Wilson rubbed his neck and sighed. "Especially if she wants to continue working at such a fast pace." A sardonic glance at House. "Which I'm sure she does."

House frowned. "That's not going to help her condition."

Wilson furrowed his brow and eyed his companion suspiciously. "No, it's not."

House shifted his feet. That comment had been less caustic than he intended.

Fortunately, Wilson knew better than to press him. "And she won't listen to me. She's somehow convinced herself that she can do more now that she's dying than she could when she was completely healthy, and nothing I've said has managed to change her mind." He sighed. "She needs rest if she doesn't want to..." He trailed off.

"Kick the bucket sooner than the clan would like?" House offered helpfully.

Wilson smirked. "Not the words I would have used, but yes."

There was a moment of silence as the both turned back to Clara's room.

"You didn't tell me." House locked his eyes on Mark as the huge man's shoulders slumped. Utterly defeated. "About this."

"Doctor-patient-"

"Confidentiality, I know." Another small pause. "When did you suspect?"

"About a week ago." Wilson scratched at his neck. "I wanted to try some more things, see if maybe I could..." He shook his head. "Well," he grinned bitterly, "I couldn't."

House studied his friend intently.

Wilson cared too much and he was in the wrong specialty to afford such sentiments. He took each dying patient as a personal failure, as lives that he had been unable to save and for which he was entirely responsible. And the weight of this responsibility would have been enough to break the back of another man.

He did a good job at hiding this fact, this unconditional and unhealthy caring, from patients and colleagues, did every thing he could to make sure that he didn't burden them with a similar weight. But House saw it.

House saw a lot of things others missed about the Boy Wonder.

The diagnostician brought his attention back to Clara.

She was being a moron. Killing herself for some phone calls and hysterical family members.

It was the epitome of stupidity.

"I could make her rest."

House started, blinked and frowned. Had he just...?

"Are you offering to help my patient? For nothing in return?" Wilson was glancing at House in disbelief.

Well, now that he took the time to think about it...

"That depends on your definition of 'nothing.' I get to irritate her into submitting to my will. I consider that the best kind of fun." He smirked. "Plus, in her weakened state she'll be an exceptionally easy target." House shrugged. "I see no downside in this arrangement for me."

Wilson frowned. "You hate easy targets. They aren't enough of a challenge for you." The corners of his mouth twitched. "You like her."

House let out an exasperated sigh. "Saying it as if it's true doesn't make it any less of a delusion."

"And denying it repeatedly doesn't make it one."

The diagnostician grumbled and stared at Wilson seriously. "It's not true."

Another infuriating smirk from the oncologist. "Then why help?"

"I like to bully people."

Wilson rolled his eyes. "Obviously."

Apparently, Jimmy was not satisfied with this response.

Another sigh. "You know how stupidity irritates me. Especially when the idiocy is being carried out by an otherwise intelligent person."

"It only bothers you if you have something to lose by their idiocy. You have nothing to prove here. No stakes in her living or dying." Wilson had a smug look on his face. "And you know it."

"Sure I do." He grinned. "I'll lose my Skittle supply when she dies."

He shifted his feet and did his best to ignore the implications of the fact that he couldn't, truthfully, refute Wilson's statement. Not that it mattered.

He was more than satisfied with his Skittle comment.

Wilson scowled. "You're unbelievable."

House smirked. "I'm entirely believable." A shrug. "You just have no idea how much I like Skittles."

"Then you're impossible."

"That I can agree to."

House glanced at Wilson to note the smile over the oncologist's face.

He had never been as good at lying to Wilson as he was at lying to himself.

"Thank you," Wilson said, still looking into his patient's room. "For helping Clara."

"Don't be," House grumbled. "I'll make you pay me back."

Wilson snorted. "I don't doubt it." He kneaded the skin bellow his ear. "Now for the fun part." He sent House a sardonic look. "Telling a caring family that they have to leave their dying loved one."

House smirked. "How does one go about that in a properly tactful manner?"

Wilson's eyebrows rose. "You care?"

"Nope. Just like you to explain your misery so you have to live through it twice."

Wilson smirked and opened his mouth to respond.

"You don't."

Both Wilson and House frowned, turning around towards the voice.

Cameron was grinning at them, only a few feet away. "You get someone else to do it." She strode forward. "Give me five minutes and I'll get the room clear."

Wilson's concern was all but shining through his eyes. "Cameron, are you-?"

She held up a hand, cutting the oncologist off. "Five minutes." She gave another smile and entered the room.

The two older doctors observed her in silence as she kissed Clara on the cheek before pulling Mark aside.

House sent his friend a penetrating look. "You've been having lunch with her."

Wilson gave a distracted nod, eyes narrowed and focused on Cameron.

The diagnostician tilted his head. "You're worried about her."

Wilson brought his attention to House. "I've seen more people react to the imminent death of a family member than I would care to remember." He gestured to the doctor in the room, now pulling Sammy up from her seat. "Her reactions haven't been normal." He sighed. "Haven't been healthy."

House frowned. "It's not just that."

Wilson sent him a confounded look.

"Sure, this reaction isn't normal, but I doubt every response is." He gave his cane a tap. "It's not just that little tid-bit that's bringing out your inner mother-hen." He gave the man a critical look. "It's the fact that it's her."

Wilson shrugged and turned back to the room, hand loosening his tie slightly. "She's a co-worker and I'm worried about her mental health." He grinned at House. "I, unlike some, have no problem with expressing concern towards my fellow man."

House's eyes narrowed. "Fellow woman, certainly." He felt a pang in his gut, one that he had no wish to identify.

Wilson turned away from Clara's room and scowled, rolling his eyes. "Here we go again."

House continued on as if he hadn't been interrupted. "But you don't just want in her pants. If so, you would have done it already." He narrowed his eyes. "How long since you've been eating together? Four months?"

"Five."

House smirked. "You care about her." The pang gave another painful flare.

"I care about everybody, remember?"

"But there's caring and then there's _caring_. There's a difference between the two, even for you, Saint Jimmy." He eyed Wilson intently. "She's not just a co-worker to you anymore."

Wilson returned the stare, suddenly serious. "She's a friend." A small pause. "_Just_ a friend."

And his earnest, desperate, look, the one that all but pleaded for the man to believe him, was enough to convince House.

He grumbled. "Make sure you go sweeping the area for centrifuges. They bring out the weepiness in her."

Wilson's eyes widened as House turned back to the room, watching as Cameron gently pulled Matt away from his mother and set him on his feet, House doing his best not to wonder why he had told Wilson that.

Fortunately, this task was made easier when Mark strode out of the room, holding onto Matt and saying something about ice cream. Too Hot To Be Human (Indian name) soon followed. He turned his attention back to the room just as Cameron gestured him in, removing the phone from Clara's hand.

Wilson grinned at him. "That's your cue."

House brought his free hand his hair, smoothing it. "How does my makeup look?"

"You'll dazzle them."

He nodded sagely. "I always do." With that he strode into the room, feeling rather than seeing Wilson's eye-roll from behind him.

When he entered Clara was scowling at her sister from the bed. "Al, I'm in the middle of an important call-"

"Which I can take care of for you." Cameron interrupted smoothly, cell phone in hand and staring at Clara with an almost frightening patience. "You want to transfer all of the assets and immediate control of the organization to Emily, right?"

"Yes, but it's not that simpl-"

"I know. And Emily will need time to gather paperwork and get prepared herself before either of you can really get into the details." Cameron smiled. "I'll help her with the preliminary things while you rest. And I'll call up Will too." She smirked. "Your phone has a better long distance plan than mine."

Clara sighed, a smile on her face. "Exploiting me even now, are you?"

Cameron gave a small, forced, grin. "For as long as I can." She shook herself and then looked to House. "I'll leave you to do your thing." She smiled. "No mercy."

Clara crossed her arms over her chest and glared at the other woman. "You're cruel for siccing him on me."

"Better you than me. Lord knows I'd be the one he'd torment if I didn't distract him with you."

House got the distinct impression that his presence was being ignored.

Couldn't have that.

"Ladies! Let's not fight." He sent them smiles. "I'm gracious and talented enough to annoy you both."

Clara snorted. "What a relief that is."

Cameron smirked, continuing on as if House hadn't spoken.

She had known him too long to indulge him properly.

"I'm off to make phone calls." She pointed at Clara. "Rest." Another finger House's direction. "Behave."

"Slave driver," he grumbled. He turned to Clara. "Next thing you know she'll be ordering Foreman to go harvest the fields."

Cameron just shook her head as she left the room, the door shutting silently behind her.

House kept his attention on Clara, moving further into the room. "Don't think she won't. She's really good at hiding the fact that she gets off on seeing me suffer, probably the guilt keeping her from reveling in it properly, but she still does." He made his way to a chair and pulled it closer to the bed before sitting. "Just imagine the fun she'll start having if she expands her slaves to other members of the team." House narrowed his eyes at Clara, who's gaze was locked on something behind him. "Not to say that she'll start running a plantation any time soon, but... Baby-steps."

Still nothing from Clara.

House frowned. "Not defending your sister's honor, far-off look. You're ignoring me."

He swung his body around to see Wilson standing next to Cameron, hand on shoulder, sympathy apparent in every motion. But Cameron gently removed herself from him, gesturing to the cell phone still in-hand, bringing it to her ear and walking away. Leaving Jimmy alone, rubbing at his neck and staring after her.

House frowned at the interaction and shrugged, turning back to Clara. "Wonder Boy trying to aid those in need once more. Nothing unusual." Although the fact that his help hadn't been accepted was troubling.

He again, didn't bother to think about why.

Clara shook her head, looking at House. "Right." She grinned. "You don't need to baby sit me, you know."

House raised an eyebrow. "Sure I don't."

She sighed loudly. "And with the death sentence so too comes the complete lack of trust."

"In regards to doing what's best for your own health?" House brought a hand to his mouth before inclining his head. "Yes. All of my, admittedly small, faith in you has been utterly extinguished."

"I expected no less from my flesh and blood, but you too Greg?"

"Your family is extremely persuasive. Besides, the sooner you expire the sooner I have to find myself someone new to watch General Hospital with."

"And who would want to go through all of that trouble again?"

House gave a sage nod. "The application process would terrify even Cuddy."

"Now that would be impressive."

A shrug. "I have very strict guidelines."

"You might have to let them slacken a bit in a few months." She smiled sweetly at him, bringing a hand to her chest. "After me, who could compare?"

House leaned back in his chair and smirked. "Someone's smug."

Clara shrugged. "Well it's true. With my thoughtful insights and the free candy I supply?" She repositioned her pillows around herself before leaning back into them. "You've got yourself a sweet deal here."

House shifted his feet. "The candy is nice," he muttered.

She smiled. "Like I said, you're bound to be disappointed." She reached out to her left and grabbed a stack of files from the bedside table.

House frowned and stared at her.

Clara looked up. "What?" She rubbed at her face. "Do I have something on my nose?"

"Put down the papers."

She gave a small bark of laughter as she opened the first file. "If you want to refer my hundred twenty patients to other doctors, you have right at it." She flicked her wrist towards the door. "Go get your clip-board. I'll keep working until you get back."

She really couldn't be that stupid.

"You can't be doing this to yourself."

Clara simply raised a brow.

"Not only are you laughing about your death, but you're speeding the whole process up out of sheer idiocy."

Clara shrugged. "I'm of a very pleasant temperament and have a wonderful sense of humor." She turned back to the papers. "Plus I'm a workaholic. It's compulsive. Can't help it, really."

House scowled. "That's crap and you know it." He snatched the file she had been looking at away from her, forcing her to look at him. "You're being stupid."

She sent him a mildly amused grin.

Amusement wasn't what House was aiming for.

Time to change tactics.

"Get angry, fine. Get depressed, have at it. Just stop working long enough to take care of yourself and to feel something to let the people around you know that dying isn't okay with you."

"Why on Earth would they think-"

House threw a free hand into the air. "Because you're making them look like fools, sobbing and hysterical while you calmly pay bills." He stared at her. "While you keep killing yourself just to get one last chore done. If it doesn't bother or affect you, why the hell should it upset them?"

Her fingers clenched at her sheets.

"By being so dignified and dismissive of the fact that you are dying you're taking for granted all of the sacrifices people have made to get you here." He snorted. "Just look at Wilson."

Clara glanced up.

"He works his ass off trying to cure you, taking on a case that no one else in his field with half a brain would voluntarily poke with a stick, and you're willing to throw all of his dedication away to do a job that any lackey could accomplish." He smiled coldly. "Just like that."

Clara shook her head, looking down at her fingers, hanging her head.

Now he was getting somewhere.

She sighed. "It's not that simple-"

"You're dying. It can be made that simple."

"But I have to-"

"What you have to do is live as long as you can for the people who gave so much to keep you that way."

She brought a hand to her brow, shaking her head.

Guilt was useful only for so long. People needed something else to spur them into action.

Time to go in for the kill.

House smirked. "The way you're acting, it's almost as if you don't care if you die."

Clara's head snapped up, her eyes flashing. "How dare you."

House suppressed a smile.

"Don't care?" Her hands unclenched from around her sheets. "Don't care?" She stared at him intently. "Of course I care."

Her tone softened. "Of course I'm upset, depressed." She grinned sadly. "But I don't have the time for it now, Greg. I no longer have that luxury." She sighed. "I don't get to stew in regret, sadness. Those are minutes I could be spending with my family and friends, that I could spend tying up loose ends," she gestured angrily to the pile of folders on her lap, "getting all of this damn paperwork out of the way so that I can spend the moments I have left with the things," a small smile, "people, that really matter."

She laughed bitterly. "You think that I'm okay with dying? That I've got nothing that I'm leaving behind?" She inclined her head in his direction. "Look at my life and tell me what I won't miss. I enjoy my job, have a loving husband, a brilliant kid, a family that anyone would envy." She returned her gaze to her hands. "And I have to say goodbye to it all in a matter of months." She looked back to him, eyes hard. Not tear-filled, but perhaps that added to their sadness. "I hate dying, Greg."

She stared back at her sheets, exhaling. "And I hate the fact that it's my own fault."

House's eyes widened.

She looked up and her lips upturned slightly. "You were right. If I hadn't been so much of a coward, I could have prevented all of this." A deep breath. "But I was, and now I and everyone I love is suffering for it."

House stared down at the floor, paying particular attention to where his cane connected with the tile.

He had almost hoped that he had been wrong about her. That she hadn't been too frightened to get the lumps checked out, that she really had simply missed them. If she had just been unobservant, he could have pretended that it had been a simple error. That she was logical and rational and that was why she was so interesting. That she was a little less human, a little more intriguing and that these were the reasons for his continued association with her.

But she wasn't and they weren't.

The truth sucked sometimes.

"Now," House glanced back up at the woman as she continued to speak. "I could become absorbed in this, let it kill me before I'm actually dead, or I can move on."

She smiled sardonically. "Guess which one I picked?"

House smirked.

"So now I have to do all I can as fast as I can, while I have the time and energy to pull it off." She stared at him. "None of this matters, Greg." She sighed. "I just want it done so I can savor my family while I still can."

House shook his head. "If you continue like this, 'while you still can' won't be long."

She took in a breath, about to protest.

"You _are _killing yourself," he interjected quickly. "If you think that you've caused them to suffer now, it'll only be worse if you cut the time you have left in half out of stupidity."

She glared at him. "It's not stupidity-"

He shrugged. "Like you said; the paperwork doesn't matter."

Clara sighed, tangling her hands in the sheets of her bed, before, very quietly, asking, "What do I need to do?"

House grinned.

Sweet victory.

He stood up and snatched the remaining files off of her lap, dropping them to the ground and smiling as they slapped against the tile. "Right now we need to watch Jax and Jason have that brawl we've been anticipating all week."

Clara grinned. "Is that today?"

House gave a nod. "Yep." He flopped back into his chair, grabbing the remote and turning on the television. "Then you're going to sleep. When you wake up you're going to ask Wilson how much work you can reasonably do." He stared at her sternly. "And then you're going to sleep again."

Clara unraveled herself from her bed covers, letting out another breath of air. "Okay."

"Good." House glanced around, peering over the bed. "Now where are the Skittles?"

Clara rolled her eyes and got a bag of the sweets out of the bedside table, tossing them to the doctor.

House poured out a handful instantly.

Minutes later he heard a very subdued, "Thanks, Greg."

He gave Clara a quick look, getting himself some more Skittles. "Don't get used to it."

Clara grinned, reaching over and grabbing the bag away from him. "Never."

---

Cuddy was currently gazing over the sight of the clinic with an expression of utter shock on her face.

The world had ceased to make sense. If she glanced outside she wouldn't have been the least bit surprised to see pigs flying gleefully across the parking lot. Armageddon was fast approaching.

Gregory House was doing clinic duty.

Without her having to blackmail, annoy, intimidate or threaten him into doing so. The universe was, certainly, about to implode.

What's more, Doctors Chase and Foreman were also present in the clinic.

This was troubling as well.

Foreman hated the clinic for the same reasons House did. It was boring, dull. Work meant for people who didn't have anything better to do. And Foreman, unlike House, was generally very good at finding better things to do. Of course, the only exception being when he lost a bet to his boss.

Chase had to be pushed to spend time in the clinic ever since his mistake. Oh, whenever asked he would go about the task of minding the sick masses easily enough, but he never went on his own accord. Had to be pointedly reminded when his name came up on the schedule, forced to acknowledge the responsibility he was trying so desperately to shirk.

Yes. Existence as the world knew it was about to end. Or at the very least, be changed dramatically.

Of course, in order to discover just why this alteration had taken place, she would have to speak with House. Perhaps even have a conversation with him.

She wasn't looking forward to this experience.

Ever since she had, foolishly, gone to thank him for saving her job, she had been doing her best to avoid one Gregory House. She had, for the most part, failed to do this as sufficiently as she would have liked.

She didn't like House. She couldn't afford to. As an employee, House was too unstable, too unpredictable and far too likely to get himself fired for her to form any sort of connection with him that was not strictly professional. That sort of attachment could distort her judgment, cause her to make stupid decisions. And Cuddy wouldn't allow that. Couldn't allow that. Because if she did, she would be compromising the one thing she had left. The greatest and final quarter of her current existence. And if that was gone, she would have nothing left.

No, Cuddy did not like House.

It wasn't that Lisa didn't care for House. In a sense, she did. She wished no ill upon him, wanted him to find happiness and hoped that he learned to stop making people, specifically patients, cry for his own amusement. Although, somewhat guiltily, Cuddy did derive a certain amount of pleasure from House's behavior on occasion. After all, the people he reduced to tears generally deserved it, and she was hardly in a position to tell them off herself. But if anyone asked her she would have denied such claims instantly.

That wasn't the point.

The point was that she did care for Greg, in the way an owner is forced to care for the puppy that causes nothing but trouble. Drinks out of the toilet. Frightens the cats. Goes into the garbage can and throws trash around the whole house. Runs outside when the owner isn't looking and frolics around just to prove it can. Causes massive lawsuits when it bites people that annoy it.

And while, yes, there is something rather endearing about this puppy, the havoc it wrecks is more than enough to cause the owner to develop a certain resentment towards it. The owner will still care for it, feed it, sign its paychecks, because that's what the owner promised she would do. But that's a far stretch from the owner enjoying any second of it. And from the owner being unable to send the puppy right back to the pound where it came from.

Even if she might miss the puppy if it was gone.

But only because she had gotten used to its presence.

That's all.

House, however, had somehow convinced himself that she really enjoyed his antics. That, despite them, she had grown overly attached, that her caring somehow affected her professional and personal relationship with him. And he took the utmost pleasure in reminding her of this fact at every available opportunity, undermining her at every turn.

And while this, by itself, was nothing unusual, her discomfort at his antics was. Along with her inability to neutralize them.

Generally, when House was being... himself, Lisa was perfectly capable at barking out a few comments, putting him in his place and then continuing on her way, House reluctantly obeying her commands. But, suddenly, she found that she had no responses for the sarcastic remarks he sent her way about their wonderful 'friendship' and her 'affection' towards him.

The words would form in her throat, every inflection and stress planned perfectly to get just the reaction she wanted out of him, but when she moved to say them they would fail her, leaving her gaping mindlessly at the man rather than correcting his foolishness. And House was quite happy to take advantage of these moments.

Thus, for the past four months she had been reluctant to be near him. She would do her best to yell at him when he did something wrong (or when he was about to do something wrong), and then quickly disappear. This sadly, had only had mild success throughout the time period. After all, she did run the hospital. People needed to contact her, to know where she was in case of a crisis, which, thanks to the very doctor she was trying to avoid, had a tendency to happen often at PPTH.

Going to him now, even to solve a mystery both interesting and deeply disturbing, felt like a defeat of some sort. As if breaking her vow to avoid him was the same as wanting to be with him. That she was admitting that he was right.

Which he wasn't.

Even if her subconscious was determined to prevent her from saying it.

House had just called up another patient and was limping for Exam Room One, completely ignoring the boy that stood up and followed him.

Lisa took in a large breath.

She was being ridiculous. She was his boss, had every right to question why he was appearing, unscheduled, at the clinic. What's more, in matters of a personal nature, she had absolutely no obligation to explain herself to him, in any way, shape or form. So, even if she did like him, although she didn't, that fact was none of his business. He worked for her; nothing more, nothing less.

Now she just had to stop acting like a schoolgirl and confront him like a reasonable, responsible, adult.

She gave herself a firm nod before walking into the exam room, confident that she could regain her control of the man.

"House," she said as she closed the door behind her.

He spun around in the chair he was seated in, turning his back to the patient before flinging himself back to the kid. "Be wary, child." He threw a quick glance over his shoulder before looking at the patient once more. "We're about to come in contact with a she-demon. Brace yourself."

The boy, easily sixteen, threw Cuddy a disturbed glance.

She smiled in reassurance before House spun around once more, adopting a completely false smile. "Hiya, Pal!"

Cuddy blinked, bringing her hands to her hips. "Am I supposed to find that cute?" Maybe it was best to throw out the 'reasonable adult' part of her plan.

House shook his head. "Not at all." A momentary pause. "You were supposed to be so irritated by it that you'd decide to leave me alone." He sighed. "But, if at first one does not succeed..."

"Why are you here?" She asked quickly. Anything to cut him off.

House frowned. "When I'm not here you bring down fire and brimstone, when I am here you prevent me from doing my job by asking annoying questions." He threw up his hands dramatically. "There really is no winning with you." He leaned forward, stage-whispering out of the side of his mouth, "Seems a bit ungrateful."

Cuddy felt her head throb.

The diagnostician had a gift for giving her headaches.

"House, I'm serious. What are you doing here?"

"My job, apparently." He shrugged his shoulders and turned back to the patient. "Or at least that's what some woman with delightfully inappropriate blouses keeps telling me." He gasped and turned, giving her a once-over with comically wide-eyes. "Hey, you have an inappropriate blouse on, don't you?"

Cuddy glared, far from deterred. "You have never, in all of the years you've worked for me, listened to a word that I've said, much less taken it to heart."

House furrowed his brow. "That's not true. You just said..." He glanced up to the ceiling.

Cuddy tapped her foot in annoyance.

"Give me a minute."

She rolled her eyes. "Why are you here?"

Another toss of his shoulder. "Maybe I've changed, Cuddy," he said with an earnest expression on his face. "I could've turned over a new leaf, you know."

Cuddy stared. "No you couldn't have."

Just then the patient, who both doctors had been ignoring, sneezed violently into the back of House's neck.

The diagnostician tensed, glaring at the boy. "Do I look like a Kleenex to you?"

The boy shook his head sheepishly.

"And do you think, as a non-Kleenex, I enjoy the sensation of snot all over me?"

Another shake.

"Next time, if you're going to spew snot do so into your hand, where I won't have to suffer for it."

He turned back to Cuddy to see her smirking smugly, eyebrow raised.

"Okay, so you're right." House stood up and hobbled to the sink, where he grabbed some paper towels. "I couldn't have changed."

"Then your reason for being here is…?"

He wiped at the back of his neck with the towel. "I was bored."

Cuddy snorted. "Have you stopped caring about the quality of your lies or are you just attempting to insult me?"

House threw her a confused expression, tossing the towel and washing his hands in the sink.

"You're either not trying or are under the delusion that I haven't been dealing with you for a decade."

"Has it really been that long?" He sighed wistfully as he dried his hands. "It feels like just yesterday I caught a glance of the ladies for the first time." His stare leveled to her chest. "Hello, Girls."

Cuddy crossed her hands over her chest self-consciously, irritated at herself for allowing him to get to her. Where was a weapon when you needed one?

He returned his gaze to her face, a smile on his lips. "They really have withstood the test of time. Just as perky now as they were ten years ago."

Cuddy took a deep breath before returning the topic of the conversation to its original purpose. If she ignored his childish behavior, perhaps it would go away.

Maybe.

"House, you're voluntarily working in the clinic. You would toss your own flesh and blood into the depths of hell to avoid a half-an-hour of this place."

"Which is one of the many reasons why I've never reproduced." He shrugged as he went back to his chair. "Child Services apparently has some problems with hell-tossing."

"And it's not just that you're here-"

"That's making you so feisty?"

Cuddy scowled.

House snapped his fingers, sighing loudly. "How disappointing. I thought I was more than enough to cause that."

If she ignored the immaturity, it would go away.

Maybe.

"Foreman and Chase are here too. Foreman's never here unless he lost a bet to you and Chase isn't here unless he's avoiding you."

"I don't know why you're upset with me so often then. Getting my minions here is more than compensating for my absence." House shook his head and gave her a disappointed look. "So ungrateful, despite all of the things I do for you."

Ignore it.

"But since you're also here, both of those options are out."

"Maybe they felt the sudden urge to give back?"

Cuddy resisted the inclination to laugh. "No. Foreman thinks he has better things to do with his time and Chase is the only person better at avoiding the clinic than you."

"Probably for the best." He leaned forward. "We wouldn't want him to go and kill someone else, would we?"

No wonder Chase had no desire to return to treating patients. With a support system like House, who needed self-doubt?

"The only doctor on your team who isn't here is the only one who should be."

House frowned.

"And unlike the rest of you, she takes her obligations seriously."

His eyes widened slightly, a brief flash of confusion passing over his features. Cuddy noted his surprise with interest.

He hadn't known that Cameron wasn't there.

But just as quickly as the confusion appeared, it was gone. "You know how she can get this time of the month…"

Cuddy took another deep breath.

Ignore the immaturity and it would go away.

"The entire diagnostics department is acting out of character." She resisted the urge to tap her heel. "Why?"

"Chase still won't put-out and I'm not the only one disappointed," House offered helpfully, turning back to his patient before she could respond, telling him to breathe.

Cuddy glared at the back of House's head as the boy took in a snotty breath.

House threw a quick look over his shoulder. "You aren't leaving."

She leaned against the door and smiled. "And I don't plan to until I get a real answer from you."

House sighed, lowered his head and pushed away from the patient's table, spinning in his chair and staring at her levelly. He sucked in some air and stared up at her.

"Foreman's here to prove that he's not a selfish bastard."

Cuddy blinked. That was helpful. Now if only House would follow suit.

"Chase is here because he's avoiding his girlfriend."

She grinned. That seemed like Chase.

"Cameron's not here because she's running errands for her dying half-sister."

Doctor Samson was dying.

And there it was.

Although Lisa didn't know the woman well herself, she knew about Cameron's sister. She was the Dean, after all, and she knew her hospital up and down. What's more, she knew that House had been skipping out on clinic to watch soaps with the cancer patient. Because she had to know House up and down, understanding him better than the doctor realized. And knowing the man as she did, the significance of House spending time, voluntarily, with a patient was not lost upon her.

And the loss of a person House had claimed as his own would affect him more profoundly than he would ever admit. Or be willing to show.

"And I'm here because I'm bored." He stared blankly at her, daring her to challenge him. To start a fight. To distract him.

Because Greg didn't have the Vicodin to make life hurt less any more.

Cuddy couldn't, wouldn't, take the bait.

"Now if you'd excuse me," House muttered, spinning around once more. "I need to teach a seventeen year-old how to blow his nose."

The patient, remarkably silent until that point, opened up his mouth in protest. "I can blo-"

"If you could, you wouldn't have so much snot blocking up your airways, would you?"

The patient huffed.

"House."

He stiffened slightly, peering over his shoulder, eyebrow raised in question.

And the owner, when her puppy was hurt, despite the hell that the dog had put her through, would always offer what comfort she could.

Because that's what people did for those they cared for.

Liked.

"I'm-"

"Doctor Cuddy?"

Lisa sighed, turning away from House to see the head nurse at the door.

Probably for the best.

She would hate for House to know he had won.

"Yes, Brenda?"

"A patient just came to me complaining about a situation in the first floor women's bathroom."

"A situation? What kind of situation?" She frowned. "Is there another leak by the windows?" It had started raining some hours before, and water often slipped in through the cracks between frame and wall. "Couldn't maintenance take care of it?"

"They wouldn't say what it was and asked for you specifically."

Cuddy pinched the bridge of her nose, the pain in her head increasing. "Wonderful."

"Oh," House clapped his hands eagerly from his chair. "Some secret female thing. Can I come?"

Cuddy threw a glare his way. "No." She looked up to Brenda. "Make sure he doesn't get into any trouble."

She heard House's exclamation of, "Looky. A needle with drugs in it. Want some, kid?" as she left the room.

No rest for the weary.

---

"I can't believe you fed me to Greg."

"I didn't 'feed' you to anyone," Wilson remarked, eyes darting to anywhere but his patient. "I just used you as a sacrifice."

She scowled.

Wilson gave a helpless shrug, smirking. "He promised not to steal any of my food for a week if I allowed him to torment you."

Clara glared. "You should have starved."

Her smile ruined the severity of the statement.

Wilson leaned back in his seat by Clara's bed, smiling. "You know you wouldn't have listened to anyone else."

"That's not true!"

"Fine," Wilson allowed, sending her a significant glance. "You would have argued with them until they gave up out of sheer exhaustion."

She nodded happily. "Much better."

"Fortunately," he said dryly, "we happen to have the most annoying and pig-headed man on the planet at hand, and this seemed like just the sort of situation to exploit his otherwise infuriating tendencies."

"Very convenient for you." She pause. "Until he turns on you, that is."

Wilson inclined his head, thoughts elsewhere. "An unavoidable downside."

For all that the oncologist liked to joke about his friend, and for all that House liked to appear aloof, Wilson knew better.

His friend did not handle death well. Did not like surrendering the people that he had placed emotional investments in, partly because he partook in the practice so rarely. House did not like people, and even when he did he had no desire to admit any fondness, seeing the affection as a weakness more than anything else. After all, people couldn't be trusted. They were far more likely to take advantage of the caring rather than reciprocate it.

So, as heartily as House denied that he enjoyed Clara's company, his selfless offer to bully her into resting instantly negated all of his claims.

House liked her. And the fact that she was dying was going to grate on the diagnostician.

Of course, there was little Wilson could do to help, since House refused to acknowledge this truth, much less deal with it.

One of the many trials of being the best friend of an emotional recluse.

Wilson shook himself, turning back to Clara. "How are you?"

She fiddled with her blanket. "Good, considering."

Wilson simply raised an eyebrow mutely.

Clara let out a sigh. "I'm worried."

Wilson smiled in encouragement and gestured for her to continue.

"My family doesn't know how to grieve properly. Never has." She smirked. "You should have seen us when our first dog died."

Wilson grinned but said nothing, waiting for more.

She sighed again. "Matt, Will and Sammy will be all right, given some time. They're young, haven't experienced enough of death to forget how to let the pain out. They know how to wail and cry, to suffer and mourn. And then how to continue on with life." She looked down at her hands.

Wilson furrowed his brow. "But it's not always that easy."

She looked up and smiled. "No, not for some." Her gaze returned to her hands. "Mark will keep the grief close to him for a very long time. Too long. Eventually, he'll be able to move on, but it will hurt him terribly, to keep that pain for such an extended time."

She glanced up, shaking her head. "But for Al, it's never that simple. She can't just be sad and miss the person who's gone. That's not enough." She stared intently at him. "She has to suffer for it."

He frowned. "Suffer?"

A head shake. "Life can't go back to the way it was before, can't be as good or as pleasant." She snorted. "If it does, then it's an insult to the memory of whoever's gone."

"When a good person dies," he said, almost to himself, "there should be an impact on the world."

Someone should be upset.

And Cameron, because she was selfless and wanted to spare those around her from harm, would always assume that the person should be her.

"Of course." Clara's voice pulled him away from his thoughts. "And that alone isn't bad." She sighed. "But she doesn't know when to stop punishing herself for the sake of someone else. A dead someone else at that."

She leaned forward on the bed, adjusting herself on the pillows. "Brian died over ten years ago and she's only gone on a handful of dates since then. She's lost all contact with their old friends, hasn't touched the life they had together for fear of tarnishing it in some way." She stopped her fiddling and looked at him sadly. "Her husband died and then she stopped living out of a twisted sense of obligation to his memory."

Wilson rubbed his neck.

"The worst of it is that she doesn't even realize what she's doing. She keeps insisting that she's gone out with friends, that she's goes on dates. That she just lost the phone numbers of her old classmates." Clara sighed. "But the only people she goes out with are Eric and Rob, mostly for work. All of her dates have been with people like Greg, who would never have her." Wilson's eyebrow quirked. "She hasn't made any new friends here in Jersey."

She brought a hand to her brow, rubbing above her eyebrows and sighing. "I hate to think what she'll leave behind when I'm gone."

"You're not gone yet," Wilson reassured her quickly.

"But I will be." She gave a small smile. "Last time, although God knows I should have been there to help her, I was too busy setting up my business, being pregnant, to stop her from disconnecting from everything, one, that mattered to her." A small headshake before a reluctant grin spread across her face. "Except for her schooling. The one thing she's ever done for herself. Nothing could take her away from that. Even when Brian was at his worst, she would take care of him all day until he fell asleep, then study. I would call, ask her how things were going, and she would leave almost immediately to go back to work."

The oncologist frowned, staring at her in disbelief. "Didn't she have any help?"

She shook her head. "Brian's friend was around for a while. He assisted when he could, but as a grad student who worked full time, didn't have the opportunity to do much more than visit on occasion." She let out a breath of air. "As for Brian's family, his parents were dead, his sisters struggling to pay rent in different parts of the country-"

Wilson brought a hand to his neck, amazed. "She did it all by herself."

"Because I was too busy to be bothered."

He jerked his head up to stare at the woman seated on the bed in front of him. "I didn't mean-"

"I know you didn't, Jim." She smiled without humor. "But it's true." She entwined her fingers. "And I won't be able to help her this time either."

This was no good. The thinly veiled depression and self-loathing. The worry and stress.

The first two were unwarranted. The second two were detrimental to his patient's health.

No matter how well deserved.

Wilson gave his neck one last rub before leaning forward, looking at the woman seriously. "Clara."

As a doctor, his priority was his patient. Not those who she was concerned for.

Who he was concerned for.

Now, in his patient's room, faced with her inevitable death, he was a doctor first.

"You can't worry about Cameron, not now. You don't have the energy to spare and your concern is far from needed." He smiled. "Trust her. Lord knows she's managed to care for everyone else when they've needed it." He gave a rueful grin, recalling how she had saved him from taxi cab fares and, likely, a fever over five months ago.

Clara smirked back.

He shook himself. "We both know that she's more than capable of doing the same for herself."

Clara nodded. "Oh, yes. She can." She gave him a helpless look. "But what if she won't?"

Then someone else would have to take care of her.

And Wilson couldn't shake the feeling that it should be him.

Because he liked her. Enjoyed her company and found her charming in every way. How sometimes she would laugh so hard that tears would form in the corners of her eyes. The way she ate her food, with a delicacy that most didn't show to the most fragile of artifacts. How she could get him to do anything, just by smiling at him, and how she didn't take advantage of it, like most would. The way she managed to be both young and old at the same time. Tired, jaded and wise, but also playful and full of hope, almost naive in her beliefs.

He found grace when she walked, when she talked. When she did nothing at all except simply be. And for all of these reasons Wilson knew, that somehow throughout the past months, of talking, eating and laughing through the days and weeks, through the trials and tribulations, he had become a bit in awe of her. That he might have grown far fonder of her than he should have.

That he wanted her in a way that he couldn't allow himself.

Because she could have so much better than him. Better than a man with three failed marriages, a reputation for deception and a life limited to the comings and goings of the oncology department.

And because she wasn't his to want. To have.

Because, most importantly, she loved House.

And Greg wanted her, could love her, even if he would never admit it. Even if he was doing his damn best to deny her at every turn, to keep himself miserable, unhappy and safe.

And although Wilson had done many horrible things in his life, had caused many of the people he cared for horrible pain, he could never take Greg's chance at happiness away from him.

Greg needed it so much more than James did.

So, Wilson continued to persuade himself with every passing day that Cameron was his friend, no more.

And he, for the most part, had.

House deserved to be happy. To discover some greater redeeming aspect of existence other than the simple desire to prove everyone else wrong. Wilson wasn't going to snatch away House's opportunity to find it.

For that alone, he could convince himself of anything.

Yes, he liked Cameron and she was his friend, and he could offer comfort and support all he wished. But it was not his place to want her. To have her. To care for her when she wouldn't care for herself.

The man she loved would be far more suited to that.

"Wilson."

Wilson frowned at the new voice, leaving his thoughts and turning in his chair to see Cuddy standing next to the door of the room. "Doctor Cuddy."

Clara gave a little wave from her spot on the bed. "Hello, Lisa."

"Good evening, Doctor Samson," the Dean replied with an almost strained grin before turning back to the oncologist. "Doctor Wilson, could I speak with you, please?"

"Of course." Wilson stood up from his seat. "Clara, you've got another half an hour on the drip." He made his way to the door. "I should be back by then, okay?"

She made a shooing gesture and picked up the remote to the television. "Got it Jim." She smirked. "Go do that doctor thing you do."

Wilson rolled his eyes and stepped outside the room, his boss hot on his heals. "What is it, Lisa?" He asked once they were in the hallway.

She took in a large breath. "It's Cameron."

Wilson's eyes widened. "What's happened? Is she okay?"

Lisa shook her head. "I don't know. I saw her without her noticing and thought that she would appreciate a friend more than anything else."

Wilson, more than slightly worried, barely registered the fact that Cuddy had come to him rather than Chase or Foreman.

Or House.

"Where is she?"

"The women's bathroom on the first floor."

He didn't wait for the rest of her explanation, jogging to the stairs rather than waiting for the elevator to arrive.

He had forgotten, in the instant he heard Cameron's name, that he should be letting House do this.

---

She could only assume that she fled to the bathrooms because they were the only place in the hospital that a person might, if they were lucky, be left alone and unobserved.

That was the problem with glass walls. With weak defenses and poorly constructed barriers.

People saw right through them.

So, to divert them from the wreck she had become, the spectacle waiting to be unleashed just beneath the surface, she had taken care of everything in the hours since she had learned about Clara.

After leaving Wilson (leaving his sympathy and understanding, his support that she didn't have the time, fortitude or courage to accept) she had finished the call with Emily, running out of batteries by the time the conversation was through. She had reluctantly switched to her own phone, a gigantic monstrosity from five years before that she hadn't had the time to replace, and gone outside in the rain to get a signal.

During a quick conversation in which Will said he would be in Jersey before the week was out, Cameron had quickly become soaked, rain rapidly going through the thin fabric of her lab coat.

But she had more phone calls to make.

She contacted family friends, colleagues of Clara, former patients who had become closer once they stopped seeing Clara professionally. Skimming through the flickering address book on Clara's cell, she had reached them all. Calmly and with as much grace as she could muster, she had told each and every one of the kind people who had become the Samsons's friends about Clara's condition.

Yes, she was dying. No, no visitors. Not now. In a few weeks, maybe. If Clara was up to it. Time? Four months. Yes, it's short. Please, don't be. It's not your fault. The family appreciates your support. Thank you.

Click.

Over and over again. Each conversation making it more real, making the sting all the more sharp, the truth harder and harder to deny.

Clara shouldn't be the one to have to go through this. Certainly not Matt. Sammy, the poor thing still shocked herself? No.

And not Mark. She wouldn't make him live through that too, on top of all of the grief. Not like she had.

Brian had a lot of friends.

Three months after he and Allison were married they had wanted to know why he had stopped coming to the soccer games. Why he never showed up to class any more. Why he stopped going to work.

What was wrong with Brian?

And he had been so sweet. So beautiful. Awkward, but in a way that made Allison love him all the more. That made complete strangers like him on sight, none of them able to explain why they had been drawn to the slightly geeky, yet friendly, man.

Everyone loved Brian.

And everyone wanted to know what had happened to him.

And Allison couldn't tell them that he was wasting away. That he had become skeletal. That his hair was gone, that some days he was so tired that he had to stay in bed, sleeping through the parties, games and classes that he was so missed from. That sometimes he was so weak that he couldn't eat. That he always tried to hide how much pain he was in, to protect her, sobbing into his pillow during the bad nights. That she hid that she knew, to protect him.

And she couldn't possibly tell them that the smile, the one that could charm even the most stoic of persons, brighten any day and encourage the most downtrodden, was still there. That even when she gave him bruises from hugs, even as he continued to lose weight, as the pain became worse and as he felt his future being snatched away from him day by day, he still had his beautiful smile, so out of place on a face so different from the one they all knew.

So, instead of all of that, the gory details, she had just told them that he was dying.

So now she did it again. Said the things she had to, talked to the people who should know.

At least she had never done this, with her father. It was all simple then, the matter of death.

"Daddy's sick, Allison. He's going to leave… And he isn't coming back." A sniff. "What was that?" A frantic headshake. "No, of course not by choice, Al. Daddy would never want to leave you." Another breath of air. A laugh. "No, he doesn't want to leave me, Mom or Will either." A frown. "Why?" Hands playing with Allison's hair, tears falling on her scalp. "When people we care about die, it hurts because we love them so much."

And Clara had braided her hair and they had cried all night. And in the morning Daddy had looked the same as the day before, and he had told her that he loved her and, for an eleven year-old, that was enough to make it all hurt a little less.

Of course, she had been too young to catalogue every change in her father, to notice the transformations in body, form and temperament.

She was young enough not to have to watch him die.

Ten years later and she had no such luxury. She had critically observed Brian's death up to his final breath, and then been grateful that his suffering was over. That he didn't have to keep smiling just for her.

Twenty years after her father's funeral it was happening again. Now was the time to bring out the paper and pen; to start her surveillance of another loved one. To note how the disease ate at her, slowly destroyed every indication of the spirit and joy in her sister. As it robbed her of a good life.

As it robbed Allison of one other thing she cared for.

It was always cancer.

By the time the calls were done, Cameron was freezing, drenched from head to toe, reluctant to return inside.

She couldn't let her family see her like this. Couldn't let them think that she couldn't handle it. Not when they needed her.

And she couldn't let her colleagues see her.

Couldn't let House see her.

Wouldn't allow them to lose what little respect she had fought so hard to gain from them.

She had gone to the bathroom, the one place where she should could, possibly, be left alone long enough to pull herself together. Just a few minutes. She didn't need to dry off, just regain some composure. A couple of minutes alone.

That's all she needed.

Of course, it was at that moment that a woman had entered the room, taken one look at her and then quickly fled.

And if the expression on her face hadn't been so petrified, her terror so entertaining, so wonderfully amusing, it might have made her cry.

Instead it made her laugh. Caused her to lean over the sink and howl into the porcelain, far more amused than the situation warranted.

The woman had been scared, frightened, of her. Allison Cameron.

Pure, sweet and innocent Cameron, who never hurt anyone except for herself.

The laughter increased in volume and concentration, Cameron stumbling away from the sink to lean against the far wall, still laughing, recognizing the hysterical pitch to it, the unnatural intensity of the chuckles.

And if she wanted to, she probably could have stopped.

But then she would think about Brian and Dad.

And Clara.

Her personal hero. Her rock, her foundation. The closest thing she had to a mother since she was twelve.

And how she would be gone, just like them.

Thoughts like that hurt. Laughing was so much easier.

Before long Cameron found herself sliding down the tiled wall, flopping onto the floor without grace, the laughter quickly morphing to sobs. Like a switch had been flipped.

Apparently, it was a thinner line between laughter and tears than she had anticipated.

Her vision blurred, the world spun, she couldn't gather enough air to support her crying. She tried to stop, pulling her legs close to her chest, hugging them with her arms, bringing her face down to her knees, trying to take slow, long breaths.

This wasn't like her. She didn't have emotional break-downs. Couldn't afford to, didn't see the purpose.

Cameron was, after all, a very practical person.

Sobbing uncontrollably on a bathroom floor wasn't practical. Wasn't sane. Wasn't useful to anyone, least of all herself.

She took another breath, attempting to calm herself, having only minimal success.

Then there were hands on her shoulders.

"Cameron?"

She jerked her head up and blinked at the blurry pocket-protector in front of her.

"Are you all right?"

She tilted her head back further, taking in the kneeling form of Wilson, hair disheveled, tie loose and jacket hanging off his shoulders, staring intently at her, hands moving from her arms to her forehead, checking temperature.

Cameron nodded at him, tears still leaking out of the corner of her eyes. "I'm fine," she managed to squeeze out.

Wilson smirked, bringing his hands back to her shoulders and looking at her huddled form head to toe. "This may be going out on a limb, but I'm thinking that you're lying to me."

Cameron gave a snotty snort, staring up at the oncologist, smiling back and rubbing at her cheeks with a hand. "Maybe just a little."

He grinned. "Well, if it's just a little…" He let go of her shoulders, slumping to her side and leaning his back against the wall she was currently huddled against. He inclined his head in the direction of her legs. "Why don't you uncurl, there?"

She nodded, loosening the grip she had on her legs and allowing them to unfold in front of her.

"Better?"

She gave another nod, leaning her head against the wall and taking another deep breath.

"Good."

She heard the sound of rustling fabric "Here." He pressed something into the palm of her hand.

She glanced down to see a napkin between her fingers.

She laughed. "Do you keep a supply of these on-hand?"

He nodded seriously. "Always." He grinned. "I was a boy scout."

She gave another chuckle and blew her nose, tossing the paper into the trash bin on her right once she was through.

They were silent, both staring ahead, Cameron sniffing occasionally and Wilson sitting silently by her side.

And it was nice to have him there.

Until she remembered what happened next.

Because Wilson seemed very much like someone Allison could turn to, someone who appeared more than happy to accept her, help her.

And she knew what happened when she clung to people like that. The feelings that were manufactured out of desperation and despair, of loneliness and loss.

And Allison had already decided that she wasn't going to fool herself into thinking she loved him. Especially not like that. Through horrible circumstance rather than any deep affection, out of her using him for her own means. And while, yes, she wanted to, nearly needed to, accept his help, to turn to someone, just for a while, she didn't dare.

Allison didn't know if she could bear losing Wilson's friendship like she had lost Joe's.

She coughed, wrapping her arms around herself to block out the cold, looking at Wilson. His kind expression and his caring eyes, the way his hands almost twitched at his sides as he studied her intently.

Maybe, if she was very careful, she could remember that he was her friend, nothing more. That everything else, all the other feelings, were artificial creations her mind had induced to make her feel less alone. That his help was just one concerned friend to another, without strings or commitment.

And for the comfort she wanted so frantically, she could manage that.

"You're in the women's bathroom, you know."

She didn't bother to ask how he knew that she was there. It seemed unimportant.

Wilson turned to her, raising an eyebrow. "And you're drenched." There was a question in his tone.

Cameron gestured to her pocket, where her phone bulged. "Couldn't get a signal."

He shook his head sadly. "I see."

Cameron blushed. "I should probably consider getting a new phone."

"But then we wouldn't have any more adventures like this one." Wilson smiled, giving her a sideways look. "I would hate to be deprived of them in the future."

Cameron laughed. "In that case, never mind."

Wilson nodded. "Excellent."

There was another comfortable silence; odd, given the circumstances. Two adults, one soaking wet, both wearing lab-coats and sitting on the floor, staring at teal tile.

Strange, that Cameron didn't want to be anywhere else at just that moment. Yes, there were things to do. People to see, clothes to change. Loved ones to care for. But for now, that could wait.

She was busy watching tile.

"I'm sorry."

She turned to Wilson.

"It's not your fault."

"I know," he said (although she wasn't sure that she believed him), looking at her. "But I'm still sorry."

Cameron nodded, bringing her gaze back to the floor.

He did the same.

After a time she realized that he wasn't leaving, that he was willing to stay sitting on the floor of the women's first-floor bathroom, just to be with her.

And that was enough to make her feel better about the deal she had made with herself. To think that perhaps she could, if she was careful, allow herself to be comforted by him.

"Wilson?"

He looked up and she caught his eyes with hers, forcing him to stare at her.

"I hate your disease."

He sighed. "Me too."

Cameron smiled bitterly, feeling another tear slide down her cheek, bringing her head down to rest against Wilson's shoulder.

And all she thought about, as his arm slowly wrapped around her, was how nice it was, to have someone to cling to.


	13. Like You Do Already

**Drenched **

**Summary:** House enjoys the company of a patient- obviously signaling the apocalypse, Wilson is getting a divorce, Chase is falling head over heals, Foreman's thinking of leaving the team and Cameron's sister has cancer. At least it's not raining. Yet.

**Disclaimer: **If I was David Shore and did own House, it would be much easier for me to come up with witty disclaimers, since I would be brilliant. (Of course, if I was David Shore I suppose witty disclaimers would be a bit excessive. Damn lucky bastard. –bitter-) House belongs to David Shore and FOX. "It Doesn't Get Much Better Than This" belongs to Nicole Burdette. My hopeless pining though; that's all mine…

**Author's Note: **I'm sorry! Thank you all for waiting so patiently. I wish I could say that things will speed up now, but… Well, college takes up more time than I, personally, believe it should. I'll be certain to have a real heart to heart with my professors about it, but I don't know if they'll be sympathetic to my cause…

However, on the bright side, including the epilogue, this story only has three chapters left! We're nearing the end, folks!

**LastScorpion **has, once again, worked her magic. A –huge- thanks to her for all the hard work she's put into this monstrosity, including taking time out of her Friday to look over this beast. Without her, I've no doubt that most would have abandoned this tale out of sheer frustration at my ridiculous mistakes. Yay for **LastScorpion** and, again, many thanks!

Medical knowledge? What medical knowledge? Any tips or corrects are, as always, most appreciated!

This story is canon-compatible up to "Skin Deep."

Reviews/Reviewers are loved.

Thank you and enjoy!

---

**Chapter Nine: Like You Do Already**

_And I want you to be a tough guy  
When you're supposed to  
Like you do already.  
And I want you to be tender  
Like you do already.  
And I want us to have met for a reason  
And I want that reason to be important.  
And I want it to be bigger than us  
I want it to take over us.  
-Nicole Burdette_

---

House gave his wrist a snap and sent the yo-yo flying out in front of him, smirking in satisfaction when Foreman jerked back in his seat from across the table, files scattering around the man.

The neurologist looked up from the mess the files had become and glared. "That wasn't funny."

"Yes it was." He flung the yo-yo again, Foreman throwing himself back in his seat once more.

Greg smiled. "What's not entertaining about that?"

Foreman scowled, standing up and gathering all of the papers together before striding into the hallway, pen firmly in hand.

"Take your temper tantrum to the children's oncology ward. Teach them resentment!" House yelled after the doctor, good humor fading only when he realized that his last source of entertainment had just stomped out of the room.

This was why he needed a set of three. With the triplets he could annoy one, have said minion flee, and still have two left to bother. He supposed twins would be satisfactory, but really, always nice to have a spare around, just in case.

House looked about aimlessly, finding nothing of amusement in his immediate vicinity.

This was a problem.

He staggered to his feet, limping into his office and flopping behind his desk, letting out a mild groan as he did so. His leg hated the rain, hated the dampness and the cold. It was mornings like this one when it took all of his will-power not to demand an extra Vicodin from Wilson. How easy it would be, to fool the man into giving him just one more, wracked with guilt as he was. To swallow that little something extra, just to help take away a little of this extra pain. A little of this added hurt.

It would all have been so very easy.

But of course, Wilson wasn't around to harass and beg from when House needed him.

Boy Wonder was getting a boo-boo face for that.

Quickly ridding himself of his thoughts, House turned on his iPod, music filling the room while he snagged his tennis ball and began to throw it rhythmically in the air, trying to keep the beat.

Now this; this could distract him for hours.

And it would have if a certain she-demon hadn't entered to room, crossed her arms over her chest, glared down at him, and given him a look that clearly said, 'I am not amused.'

House momentarily contemplated bouncing the tennis ball against her head, but thought better of it.

Cuddy wouldn't hesitate getting out the handcuffs, and House just wasn't up for something that kinky so early in the week.

His boss screamed something at him, which the music easily drowned out.

How House loved music.

He furrowed his brow and gave the ball another toss. "What?"

The glare intensified.

House sent her an innocent grin.

Throwing her hands up in exasperation, Cuddy walked behind his desk, flicked off the iPod and huffed back in front of him, re-crossing her arms and sending him a disapproving look.

He rose his eyebrows expectantly. "Was there something you wanted?"

"What are you doing here, House?"

He glanced around briefly, taking stock of his surroundings before turning back to Cuddy. "Nothing," he said and nodded in satisfaction. "Nothing at all." The tennis-ball went back into the air and House locked his eyes on it. "Foreman was doing something productive earlier, but I put a stop to that nonsense."

Cuddy shook her head. "Why?"

"To spite you, mostly."

"House."

The diagnostician glanced up at the woman, noting with distaste the concern in the her eyes. The sympathetic tilt of her head, the gentle frown of her lips.

"Why are you here?"

House scowled, standing up from his chair and hobbling out of his office into Diagnostics. Anything to get away from her damn sympathy.

"She's dead." He shot behind him as he grabbed the yo-yo he had left on the glass table, walking to the opposite end of the room. "Nothing I can do about that, no matter where I am."

Funerals never really had been Greg's thing.

"That's not the point."

"Then what is?" House sat down once more, his leg causing too much pain for him to remain standing. "Funerals exist to help people grieve and mourn." He rubbed his thigh. "I have done both, quite dramatically, may I add, already. Shame you missed it. The ritual sacrifice of a goat in her name was my favorite, although having some trouble getting the blood stains out of the carpet." He sighed. "Just one of the many tribulations of tribal worship."

Cuddy looked decidedly exasperated. "House, Cameron wants you there."

House gave his leg another fierce rub, focusing all of his attention on his limb. "No she doesn't," he muttered.

Because she didn't want him.

She was just very good at making herself believe she did.

--

House stared at the television in rapt attention, his companion similarly occupied on the bed to his left. Neither said a word, entranced by the figures moving on the screen. There was an angry yell and the sound of a dramatic slap.

Both observers gasped.

A few muffled sobs, moving music and an enraged screech sounded before a commercial took over the screen.

House turned his attention to Clara. "Intense."

She smiled weakly and shook her head. "Skye is evil, Greg." She gestured for Skittles and the doctor reluctantly handed them over. "Emily's going to kick her ass."

"Were we watching the same show?" House blinked pointedly at her. "Skye threw the first punch." An intense stare. "The battle has already been won." An obnoxious eye-roll. "Duh."

"Has it now?" Clara played with her drip. It still bothered her, despite its almost continuous presence for the past month. "And what evidence do you have to support this claim?"

"Years of soap-watching experience." House gave a sage nod. "She who punches first loses the least amount of hair."

"And thus, wins the war."

"Exactly," he agreed happily as he snatched the candy away from her.

There was a moment of comfortable silence as the watched an ad for cereal, a cartoon character with a ridiculous hat eagerly promoting the product.

Oh, the simple minds of children. Manipulated so easily.

There was a slight cough and Clara straightened her shoulders. "Greg."

He snickered as the cartoon man toppled feet over head off the screen. Silly cartoons. "What?"

"I want you to speak at my funeral."

House turned away from the television, eyes widening as a shot of pure panic and confusion flowed down his spine.

Clara stared at him seriously for a beat, before her lips twitched and she let out what sounded like an echo of her formerly throaty laugh. "I'm sorry," she said as she flopped back into her bed and House started to breathe again. "I just had to see that face." She sent him a genuine smile, eyes all but glowing in mirth.

House took in another breath of relief before adopting an appropriate scowl. "I'm going to graffiti your grave stone," he grumbled.

Clara smirked. "Al would castrate you."

His brow furrowed. "And then make me eat my own balls." He winced before glancing at the woman once more. "Fine, no graffiti. But I'm taking the last of the candy." He poured out the remainder of the Skittles from the bag and tossed the plastic onto her bed, swallowing the candies in one gulp.

Clara glared down at the plastic and then brought her gaze back to House.

He stuck out his tongue.

She rolled her eyes and gave a reluctant smile. "What are you going to do when I'm gone?" She tossed the bag into the trash to her left and looked back to him. "Sob hysterically before curling into a ball and dying out of the sheer misery?"

House narrowed his eyes. "You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"Of course not." A small pause. "Wouldn't be surprised if it happened, but that doesn't mean that I want it to."

"According to you," he leaned forward in his seat, glancing up at the television, "I've been miserable forever." He looked back to her. "I doubt that your absence will fling me that last inch into the spiraling whirlpool of discontent."

"Me either," Clara said agreeably. "But that doesn't mean you'll be able to keep living like this."

House rolled his eyes. "Says the Doctor Phil wannabe."

Clara stared at him seriously.

He gave a sigh. "I don't need to be happy."

"Well you certainly don't need to be miserable."

"So what should I do?" He asked as he leaned back in his chair. "Open up my old, jaded and worn soul and allow someone to heal the poor thing for me?" House smirked. "Let your darling sister get off on helping the cripple rediscover the warmth buried within in his oh so very fragile heart?"

"No."

House frowned. "No?" He studied the woman intently. "You don't want Cameron to make me happy, therefore make herself happy, therefore make you the happiest of all?"

"No." She smiled sweetly at him, opening up a drawer and pulling out another bag of Skittles.

House gaped.

"You should 'rediscover the warmth' by your damn self." She opened the bag and popped a Skittle into her mouth smugly.

He blinked. "You don't want Cameron to help me?"

"No." She poured out a handful of candy and then hid the rest away in another drawer. "And neither do you." Clara smiled knowingly. "Because she doesn't just want to 'heal' you. She wants to change you." She gave a soft sigh and shook her head sadly. "And you won't let her do that."

House narrowed his eyes. "What has given you any indication that she could chan-"

"Could she make you happy?"

There was a slight silence as House gave the question more consideration than he felt should have been warranted.

He quickly cleared his thoughts and brought a hand to his chin, adopting a confused expression. "What is this feeling, 'happiness', of which you speak?" He brought a finger to his temple and tapped repeatedly. He snapped his fingers. "Is it similar to 'irritation'?"

She ignored his comments. "You know she could." Clara gave a smile of indulgence. "And that's what scares you. That she could fundamentally alter your personality, make you lose that misery that you've made such an intrinsic part of who you are. And if that changes, who knows what else will?"

House gave an eye-roll. "She couldn-"

"She could," Clara interrupted quickly, in a tone that broke no argument. "But that's not the only thing that's stopping you." She stared at him seriously. "Do you think you could make her happy, Greg?"

House let out a dramatic sigh, giving the woman an annoyed glance before quickly looking down to his cane.

"Al could make you less miserable," she said, leaning forward on the bed. "You can't deny that."

House still refused to look at her.

"But you're not willing to let her." Clara shook her head sadly and returned to the folds of her pillows. "You're too damn stubborn to allow someone to attempt it. Too wary of the consequences to contemplate the benefits of such a change." A tired grin. "We both know your desire to be miserable is entirely your own, that you're the only person who has the power to change it."

House glanced up.

"But Al could never accept that." Another head shake. "She would believe that she had failed you, failed herself." She stared down at her hands. "She wouldn't be able to fix you, and it would kill her."

Clara looked away from her suddenly brittle hands, staring at House with an intensity he had no choice but to share.

"And you don't want to cause Al that kind of pain."

For a long moment, House could say nothing. Could do nothing but contemplate the statement, the absolute certainty with which the woman said it. The nagging sense, buried deeply in the corner of his mind, that she was right.

He reburied the thought instantly. "That's sweet of you to say. Not true, but sweet."

Clara ignored him. "You're doing what you think is best for her, protecting her." She was still staring at him, staring through him. "You won't love Al because you don't think you can give her what she wants, what she needs. You won't let her fix you, change you, and she wouldn't be happy unless she could."

House shuffled his feet, doing his best to distract himself from what she was saying. To overlook the high pitched ring of truth in her words.

The woman on the bed smiled. "You care about her."

"Or I think she's annoying," House snapped. "But your explanation works too." He spared a glance at the television and gave a nearly audible sigh of relief as General Hospital came back on. "Now silence. Can't miss the cat-fight."

Clara grinned, shaking her head slightly and bringing her attention back to the screen.

--

Cuddy sighed. "Even if she doesn't Clara would have."

House looked up from his leg and glared. "Would she? And you've gathered this from the three times you came in contact with the woman?" He widened his eyes mockingly. "Oh what insight you have."

Cuddy tapped her foot. "I gave you the day off for a reason." She put her hands on her hips. "Shockingly, it wasn't so you could sit in your office and do nothing except for torment Foreman."

House frowned. "Why is our favorite doctor from the hood still here anyway?" He raised his eyebrow at Cuddy. "Someone's just asking for a lawsuit."

Cuddy opened her mouth to respond, only to be interrupted but the neurologist's entrance.

"I'm here because I'm not going to the funeral," Foreman remarked blandly as he went to the table, picking up a deserted file.

House pointed an accusing finger at the younger man, looking to Cuddy.

"I am, however, going to the wake later in the afternoon." He smiled smugly at House, slowly making his way to the door.

House lowered his hand, pouting.

"Go, House," Foreman said from the doorway. "Maybe if you leave I can get some work done."

"If by 'work' you mean stealing all of the TVs in the hospital."

Foreman rolled his eyes and waved to Cuddy before leaving the room just as suddenly as he had entered it.

"Felon!" House yelled after the neurologist. He looked back up to Cuddy. "Just you wait. One day he'll snap and his inner delinquent will come out. You'll regret making me hire a third fellow then."

Cuddy grinned. "If you push Foreman to that point, I don't think anyone could blame him for whatever he planned to do to you."

House shook his head sadly. "Where's the compassion, Cuddy?"

"I think I lost it around the fifteen hundredth reference to my breasts."

He furrowed his brow and then shook his head. "Nope. It was worth it." He leaned forward. "That was the one comparing them to fresh produce." He wagged his eyebrows.

The vein in Cuddy's temple gave a satisfying jerk.

House really was the master at irritating his boss.

"Go to the funeral."

He jutted out his bottom lip. "But Moooom..."

Cuddy glared. "You aren't fooling anyone, House." She walked around the table and stood directly in front of him, making her that much more difficult to ignore. Damn her and her evil schemes. "Who are you trying to save face for?"

He scowled. "I'm not 'saving face.' I simply have no wish to subject myself to hysterics."

"No," Cuddy shot quickly. "You don't want people to think you care." She leaned down, staring at him intently.

House took the opportunity to look down her blouse.

The Ladies, he was happy to note, where in tip-top condition.

"It's too late House. We know you gave a damn about someone other than yourself."

House narrowed his eyes in suspicion. "You have no proof of that!"

Cuddy blinked. "The past four months you spent more time with a dying woman than you did with your Gameboy."

He brought a hand to his chin. "This does speak highly of her..."

She rolled her eyes. "Go and pay your respects to a good woman."

"Never," House muttered, giving his leg another rub, trying to ignore her.

Clara was dead. It was sad, but death happened. In oncology, death happened often. There was nothing special about this particular patient, even if she wasn't his. There couldn't be anything special about her.

It would set a dangerous president.

"Fine, don't go." She shook her head and went towards the door, looking over her shoulder before she exited. "But you'll regret it when you admit that you miss her."

With that she left, and House had nothing but a tennis ball to distract himself from how much he had enjoyed those Skittles.

---

Wilson had been to enough funerals in his time to know how these things went. He'd had enough people die to understand the way they worked, how to keep calm and do what was expected of him. He could never say that he particularly enjoyed it, but he managed grief, and all of the trials that came with it, well enough.

But not like Allison.

She was an expert. A master of mourning, champion of the wearily depressed. Able to retain a soothing sense of tranquility throughout the whole nasty business of death and still care for those around her. It was amazing, how remarkably together she was amongst all of this grief. How she had been so composed throughout the past months.

Too composed.

Clara's deterioration had occurred just as predicted. Three months and twenty-three days after Wilson had given his sentence, she died. It had not been a gentle process, the slow decay of the body as it shut down, as it gave in to the disease that was sapping every ounce of strength from it.

Watching it happen had been easy for no one.

By the second month Mark was at his wife's side all but a few hours of the day, during which he would disappear without comment. No one dared to ask where he went.

Sammy remained caught between episodes of intense lethargy and extreme activity, either wholly removed from the situation or so involved that she didn't have the time or perspective to analyze it properly.

Matt cried. When he wasn't doing his best to ignore the fact that his mother was dying, wasn't attempting to enjoy every last instant he had with her, knowing that there wasn't much time left in a way that other eleven year olds might have missed, he was crying.

Or he was with Foreman, the neurologist showing a tolerance and patience for the boy that surprised Wilson. Foreman did not, as a rule, bother himself with patients or their families unless he had an official obligation to do so, which he most definitely did not have with the Samsons. And yet Wilson had seen Foreman chatting with Matt in the lab as he ran tests or in Diagnostics, when House wasn't around.

Wilson wasn't sure what to make of it.

And then there had been Cameron, who took care of all of the things that were far too painful for anyone else to manage. She called the lawyers for the final will, looked into hiring private nurses, oversaw the transfer of power at Clara's business. She forced Sammy out of apathy, called Mark when he had been gone for too long, held Matt when he cried.

In fact, during the whole ordeal Allison had managed to care for everyone except herself.

Save for her first break-down in the women's bathroom, Cameron had shown next to no sign of emotional flagging throughout the months. So busy working to keep her family as unburdened as possible by the distractions of death, the well meaning friends and the necessary tasks that could steal away precious moments, and unwilling to take time off of work (despite Cuddy's pleas that she do so), she hadn't allowed herself the opportunity to mourn.

And Wilson couldn't do a thing to change it, the immunologist ignoring his every attempt to get her to rest, to slow down. To just take a moment to experience some of her own pain instead of everyone else's.

It was only when her brother came that Wilson had any success at making sure Allison didn't exhaust herself to help the people she loved.

Will was an interesting character, one not easily defined by normal conventions. He was only slightly taller than Cameron, just as naturally thin, and had it not been for the fading neon green hair and the series of rings coming from his lip, eyebrows and ears, Wilson might have found him rather feminine in appearance. As it was, however, Wilson simply smirked when Clara had gathered her youngest sibling in her arms and scolded him for not telling her about his newest piercing. (One of the three in his lower lip.)

And it was only with the presence of Will that Allison allowed herself to be pulled away from her family, her younger brother managing to transport the relatives away from their melancholy, spinning tales about his time across the country, mostly detailing his time spent with his traveling motorcycle road-show.

Nothing was a better treatment for grief than adventures that were far too magnificent to be real.

And with that momentary cure, the lagging of sadness when William Burroughs told his stories, the oncologist was able to steal Allison away from her needy family, the woman believing that Will's enthusiasm and uplifting personality would do as substitutes for her own presence, if only for a short time.

So, James would take her to lunch to observe her consume every morsel he could convince her to swallow. It was all Wilson could do to make sure that Allison got a meal in her before she would head off again, checking on a patient, phone call or family responsibility.

It wasn't much, but at least for an hour every day she permitted him to help her. To aid her in forgetting, if just for a bit, that death was eagerly waiting around the nearest corner to take away someone she loved. And, for a time, he was able to make her laugh, to listen to childhood stories, to learn more of the fascinating details that made Allison who she was.

He enjoyed those hours more than he had any right to.

Wilson shook himself, sitting up straighter in his seat as tried to look over the heads of fellow mourners, eyes instantly and without thought locking onto the steady form of the woman who had been occupying far too many of his thoughts as of late.

She was seated in the front pew, Wilson just able to make out the stubborn tilt of her chin, the strong set of her shoulders, her hand on her brother's arm. While everyone else's head was staring at the floor, eyes downcast and forms slumped dejectedly in their seats, bent in the way that only those who had experienced true loss can manage, she sat up straight.

Because she thought she had to. To protect everyone else, but never herself.

Wilson knew he could have done it for her, sheltered Allison just long enough so that she could lose herself to sorrow, the way one was supposed to with death. Allow her to experience the irrational and enraged sadness at whatever powers that be for taking one so fiercely loved. After that anger, the rest of grief was easy. No less painful, but more simplistic.

Wilson could have done it, would have, if only he could reach her.

He wished he could bridge the gap between them. Spanned the distance over the rows of pews, the hospital, her colleagues and House. Wished he could go to her and force her to feel, to rid her of this false composure, created to provide a little more strength to those she thought needed it. Make her confront the detrimental effects this mock courage had on her; allow her to realize the dangers of her continued to comfort and support while she remained persistent in avoiding her own grief expertly.

Because Wilson knew that when it finally caught up to Allison, it would overwhelm her completely.

Because the question was not whether Allison Cameron would break.

The question was when. And how.

And who would be there with her when it happened.

And Wilson knew that it couldn't, shouldn't, be him.

He let out a quiet sigh before he gave his head another shake. Today was for Clara, for her memory and spirit. This pining- hopeless, selfish and in the most inappropriate of settings, wasn't what she would have wanted.

At least, that was certainly what Wilson wanted to believe.

--

Wilson glanced down at Clara's folder at the foot of her bed, frowning at something.

"How are you doing?" he asked, jotting down a note.

"I'm great."

He looked up from the file, flicking his gaze over his patient critically before frowning. "Clara," he said seriously. "Stop lying to me." He threw a quick look at the clock on the wall.

She shrugged, flinching at the movement. "Stop asking me questions you already know the answers to," she smiled sweetly, "and I won't have to."

Wilson's scowl intensified.

Clara let out a sigh. "I'm doing as well can be expected."

Wilson's eyes narrowed as he closed the file. "And how well is that?"

She grinned. "Well enough." She slowly sat up on the bed, folding her hands in her lap and staring at her doctor intently. "How are you, Jim?"

Wilson gave a sardonic grin, giving the wall another quick look before responding. "We're not talking about me."

Clara raised an eyebrow. "Maybe we should be."

Wilson rolled his eyes and opened the file once more. "I'm fine."

"Jim." Clara crossed her hands over her chest and gave him a severe glance. "Stop lying to me."

"_I_," Wilson snapped the file closed, "am not lying." He placed the folder at its proper spot at the end of her bed, smiling up at her.

Clara ginned back, obviously unimpressed. "Then why does it look like you haven't slept in weeks?"

"I'm a doctor," he remarked blandly as he walked around to view various monitors. "I get paid not to sleep." He gave a slight nod at the equipment and then came to Clara's side. "Could you roll over on your side, please?"

She nodded and did as he asked, wincing as she turned. Once she was settled Wilson brought his stethoscope to her back, listening to the sound of her lungs.

There was a small silence as Wilson heard the disturbing crackling coming from Clara's organs.

"You're allowed to be concerned for her, you know," she said suddenly. "You don't have some jerk with a bad tie and pocket protector in your face telling you," she lowered her voice, "'not to worry.'" She glanced at him over her shoulder.

Wilson sighed, bringing the cold metal away from her back. "Clara, we don't have anything to worry about. Cameron will be fine."

"Then why do you keep looking at the clock?"

Wilson's cheeks brightened slightly.

"Eager for lunch?"

"I'm hungry," he muttered, going back to her file.

"And not just for food, I reckon."

Wilson glared as he pulled out the folder. "Let's go over your chart, shall we, Doctor Samson?"

"Sure Jim." She stole a glance at the clock. "Although we better rush if you want to get down to the cafeteria by noon."

Wilson calmly opened the file and smiled pleasantly at her. "We'll take as much time as we need, Doctor Samson." He concentrated on the notes in his hand.

"Jim."

Wilson frowned and looked at his patient, her serious tone worrisome.

She stared at him desperately, pleadingly. "You should be there at noon."

Wilson furrowed his brow, looking at the shell of a woman in front of him. It was amazing, even in a month, how frail she had become. How helpless and weak. How, in a matter of weeks, the role of caretaker had been stripped from her, forced to depend on others, those she had spent her life caring for, to watch over her. She was no longer able to provide for her family in the ways she felt she was obligated to. So who, then, would look over them?

Clara's gaze hadn't lessened in intensity as she stared at Wilson.

"Okay, Clara," Wilson said as he walked back to her side. "I'll be there at noon."

--

There was no preacher at the funeral, but a close family friend was leading the service. All mourners were silent as he spoke, a few muffled sobs resounding throughout the large room, filled to capacity with those present to honor the life of a woman he had just begun to know.

It was hard, to say goodbye to one loved so desperately.

Wilson remained quiet, tried to listen to the man's words. It was hard, to sum up a person through an awkward combination of letters, syllables and sentences, and although the attempt was a good one, it still failed to contain every brilliant and shining aspect of Clara.

The oncologist pitied the man saddled with this task; that of describing a woman larger than life through something as simple as words.

It was several moments later, during a particularly meaningful portion of his speech, that the doors to the entrance of the Church slammed open with a dramatic flourish.

As one the group turned, expressions raging from irritation to curiosity to grief across the sea of faces as they saw who had entered.

Wilson just grinned.

House gave a quick cough, shuffled on his feet, fiddled with a black tie that looked out of place on him, and then quickly strode forward, hobbling down the rows of mourners without looking at them.

Without a second thought Wilson scooted over, making a gap between himself and the edge of the pew. In moments House was seated in the gap, stretching out his feet in front of him and rubbing his leg.

He shot Wilson a look. "Not a word."

The oncologist held up his hands in surrender, smirking uncontrollably as he brought his gaze forward once more.

He knew House had liked her.

It was just a shame that the diagnostician had come to this realization so late in the game.

Greg remained silent for the remainder of the service, staring at and rubbing his leg while pointedly ignoring his surroundings.

After all, if House could forget where he was, he could forget why he was there.

After the service they went to the cemetery, Wilson forcing House into his own car rather than having the man attempt to drive himself. He knew how the leg acted up on rainy days.

Everyone stood under black umbrellas at the graveyard, some huddling together for warmth as they heard more of the same praises, starting to fidget as the downpour became more violent. Others stood off alone, more private in their misery.

Finally it was done, and the people ran to their cars and got out of the wet and cold, entered the comfortable warmth of a heated and upholstered paradise.

The Samsons stayed outside in the wet longer than the rest.

Wilson tugged on House's jacket and started back to his Volvo, House quickly turning on his heel and following suit.

The men slumped into the car, shaking out their umbrellas and shrugging off the worst of the rain from their coats before closing the doors.

There was a silence as they simply stared out the window, entranced by the rain, happy to ignore the significance of what had just occurred.

It was only when they had spent five minutes staring at nothing that Wilson turned to his friend, curious. "Why did you come, House?"

House replied instantly, still shaking water off of his coat, pointedly not looking at the oncologist. "Cuddy threatened to really 'ride me' if I didn't." He glanced up. "Didn't want to find out what that meant, so I thought it best just to submit to her will."

Wilson smiled and shook his head, amused.

Denial must have been engrained in Greg's personality.

With a smirk he turned on the engine, preparing to pull out of the parking lot.

"Whoa, Sparky." House hit his friend's wrist with his cane.

Wilson scowled and rubbed at the now pained joint. "What?"

"Where do you think you're going?"

The oncologist blinked. "To the wake."

He stared pointedly. "After you take me back to my bike."

Wilson rolled his eyes dismissively. "You can't drive now. Especially not that," he paused, searching for a word, "_thing_ you call a vehicle."

House glared. "We both know you're just jealous because the bike gets me all the chicks."

Wilson ignored him. "You might be able to force your leg into cooperating with you, but no sane person would risk driving a bike in that." He gestured outside to the rain.

"But you're functioning under the highly unlikely assumption that I'm sane." House frowned, sending Wilson a hurt look. "I thought you knew me better, Jimmy."

Wilson nodded reluctantly. "Point taken." He moved his hand to the shifter and pushed down the emergency break. "You're still coming with me to the wake."

House groaned and glared. "And why's that?"

"Because you have no choice," Wilson answered happily.

The diagnostician huffed and slouched in his seat. "Twenty minutes." He crossed his arms over his chest. "After that, I'll make a scene." He tilted his head. "Think screaming 'rape' in the middle of speaking with Samson's mother would be a bit much?"

Wilson threw him a disturbed look. "You wouldn't."

House simply raised an eyebrow mutely.

Wilson amended quickly. "Okay, you would." He sighed. "Twenty minutes it is."

Soon enough the two had arrived at the Samsons' home, House quickly retreating to some darkened corner. Wilson suspected the man planned to hiss at anyone who came too near.

Wilson, however, resisted the urge to begin an instant search for Allison. He knew the family hadn't returned from the cemetery yet, knew that even if she had arrived, she did not need him hovering over her, looking over her shoulder, constantly worried for her.

He just didn't think he could help himself.

After a few minutes of pointless wandering, he spotted Chase standing uncomfortably by a wall, eyes locked on the front doors of the house while biting his nails.

Wilson decided it would be quite appropriate to join him.

He took his position just to the right of the young intensivist, the Aussie sparing him a glance before he turned his attention back to the entrance.

He gave the Wilson a distracted nod. "Hi."

Wilson returned the gesture. "Hello."

They stared at the doors.

This situation had to potential to get awkward. Wilson thought it best to take some preemptive measures.

"How are you?"

Chase jerked his head up, sending Wilson a surprised glance. "Fine." A small pause. "You?"

The oncologist observed with interest as Chase shifted on his feet, continuing to bite his nails viciously, seemingly unaware of how close his teeth were getting to the pads of his fingers.

"I'm fine."

There was a long pause.

Without warning Chase turned to the older doctor. "So," he gave a sideways grin. "You hate this too then?"

Wilson smiled. "Loathe it, actually."

The men shared a moment of mutual understanding, ruined only when the front doors opened and the family filed in, Mark, Matt, Sammy and Cameron spreading out amongst the guests.

Chase sent Wilson another nod before quickly following Sammy through the crowd, knowing that the man wouldn't take the abandonment personally.

Wilson, unlike Chase, couldn't afford to be so direct in his diligence, in his caring and desperate worry, in his nearly painful concern.

It wasn't his place, to care for her when she wouldn't care for herself. A rule he wasn't going to forget, this time around. He wouldn't want people, House, to get the wrong impression.

That was the responsibility of the man Allison loved.

And that was a role that Wilson, certainly, did not play.

So he discreetly made his way around the room, mingling with the masses, watching Allison's head duck and weave amongst the guests, following slowly behind, far enough away not to cause suspicion, close enough to satisfy his own need to make sure she was all right.

He was allowed that much. To watch from a distance.

He was in the middle of a conversation when Cameron came upon House.

Wilson observed the situation carefully, noting the calculated disinterest House regarded his employee with, the resigned wariness with which Allison approached him.

He marveled at how difficult these two people could be.

It was at that point that his attention was drawn back to the conversation he had entered, tearing him away from the two doctors and back to the group of psychologists from Clara's organization.

When he turned back to the corner where the two had been talking, it was only to see House stalking towards him rapidly, grabbing him by the elbow and pulling him along as the diagnostician hobbled towards the front doors.

"It's been forty minutes and Grandma is giving me a naughty look," he muttered as he pushed open one of the doors, shoving Wilson outside in front of him. "Let's go."

Wilson stumbled to his feet, flinching back when House tossed him his jacket, pulling it on quickly to keep the rain from soaking through his clothes.

"House." The man was already out into the driveway. Wilson hurried to catch up, glancing at the doors behind him and then back to House. "What about Cameron?"

He didn't turn or slow down. "What about her?"

"Did you see her in there?" He gestured to the building behind him. "She needs help."

The older man turned around rapidly, almost causing Wilson to run into him. "Is her problem medical?" House stared intently. "No?" A small pause. "Then I'm leaving." He started heading down the driveway once more.

Wilson rubbed his neck. "House..."

"Sure hope it's not serious," the diagnostician shot behind him. "That would be inconvenient, seeing as how I'm going home."

Wilson caught up to House, grabbing him by the shoulder and forcing him to turn around. "You have to help her."

House scowled at the hand on his shoulder, Wilson removing it quickly.

"I don't _have_ to do anything. You just want me to." House smirked. "Very demanding of you, Jimmy."

Wilson threw his hands up in exasperation, almost yelling. "Oh yes, because what is more demanding than asking you to walk across a room and look into the well-being of a woman you've tortured for the past three years?"

House simply smiled at the oncologist's loss of control. "You love her, don't you?"

Wilson blinked, feeling his heart stop. "What?"

The older man grinned. "You never tell me what to do." He inclined his head. "Well, not in such an obvious manner." He furrowed his brow. "You poke, prod and annoy, but you never flat-out tell me what I have to do. You know it doesn't work. You try to manipulate me into doing the things you think I should without actually ordering me to." He looked at Wilson up and down, smiling. "But now you're frantic, out of your senses and quite pointedly commanding me to help the Madam of the Fuzz."

Wilson shifted on his feet, scratching viciously at his neck while throwing another look to the house, trying to bury his mounting panic.

"I've known you too long, Jimmy."

Wilson turned back to his friend, who had a demented grin on his face. "You never get this flustered unless you care too much."

Wilson sighed, lowering the hand from his neck and trying to ignore what House was saying.

Denial was a skill he had learned from the best, after all.

"You love her, Jimmy."

He looked up to see House, an amused expression on his face, leaning heavily against his cane. He didn't show an inch of self-doubt.

And even though he knew it would be pointless, Wilson denied it. "I don't."

"You do."

"I don't," he responded quickly. He gave his head a shake. "And even if I did it doesn't matter. She wants you."

House's face became sober. "She doesn't know what she wants." He turned and started for the car once more.

Wilson followed. "Cameron isn't a child."

"She still thinks she can save someone if she just," he adopted a high-pitch tone of voice, "loves them enough." He gave the oncologist a glare. "If that's not the logic of a five year old, I don't know what is."

Wilson dropped the point, knowing that he would make no progress on that subject tonight. House didn't understand that sometimes love didn't involve logic.

"She needs you now, House."

He stopped. "No, she doesn't." He turned, smirking. "Not at a time like this, she doesn't. A drunken Saturday night?" He inclined his head. "Then she needs me." He started forward again, hobbling past vehicles to Wilson's Volvo.

"I'm not leaving, House."

"Obviously."

Wilson tried to catch up his friend. It was remarkable, how quickly that man could run away despite his disability.

"Then where are you going?"

"Home."

Wilson sighed as they reached his vehicle, finally able to slow. "You don't have a car."

House dug in his jacket pocket and pulled out a key ring. "But I do have your keys." He frowned at the keys before turning back to Wilson, a bewildered look on his face. "Wonder how that happened?"

Wilson cursed under his breath. He had left his keys in his jacket.

He looked at the diagnostician desperately. "House..."

The man brought up his hand, trying to see the small metal objects in the dim light from a streetlamp, taking no notice of the rain pouring around him. "You do it."

Wilson blinked. "Do what?"

House found the proper key and shoved it into the driver's side door, glancing at Wilson. "Go coddle, comfort and reassure the princess." He turned the key and opened the door, slumping inside the vehicle.

Wilson stopped the diagnostician from closing it.

How could he make House understand? What could he say to make him see?

Wilson rubbed his neck.

"Greg, she's not..."

Another fierce rub.

Mine.

"I don't want her, Wilson."

The oncologist stared blankly at the man, certain his mind was playing tricks on him.

"Hire someone else to play her savior."

Wilson studied his friend carefully, the hard and cold demeanor, unsympathetic scowl, the mild look of disgust across his features.

And, for the first time in years, James found that he couldn't tell whether or not Greg was lying to him.

He didn't consider the possibility that this was because he wanted it to be true.

The diagnostician poked Wilson in the shin with his cane, causing him to back up. "I'm taking your car." House said as he moved to close the door. "You can drop me off to pick up the bike tomorrow after work."

Wilson found himself frozen, even as the rain got between the collar of his shirt, causing him to shiver.

House rolled his eyes. "Go, Saint Jimmy." He made a shooing gesture with his hand. "Save another innocent from themselves."

With that House slammed the door, turned on the car, and drove off, leaving Wilson alone in the rain, contemplating possibilities.

---

The black dress had hung limply in the closet that morning as Allison was getting ready.

She tried her best to ignore the fabric for as long as possible, cleaning her apartment, watering her plants, balancing her checkbook.

If she had been capable of sleeping she would have, succumbed to blissful oblivion, ignorant of all of the pains that the real world, life, had to offer.

But sleep continued to elude her, to torment her in the night with unhappy dreams and frightening visions of what was to come. And Allison didn't have the strength to bear those.

So it was that at three AM Allison Cameron was paying her bills as she attempted to ignore what the rest of the day had in store. She avoided her closet and tried not to think too heavily on the significance of that black dress, of what wearing it meant.

She hadn't worn a black dress since Brian died.

Except for her evening with House, two years ago.

Both had, ultimately, been worn for mourning.

It had been a long four hours, between when Allison woke up and the seven o'clock funeral. Most of it was spent on evasion. Trying to evade the dress, the memories.

But not the reality of the situation. Never that. The possibility of death could be avoided for as long as possible, the concept that a person so loved might be approaching the end of existence. But once departed, there was no use in contradicting the unkind truth. Death didn't go away if you believed that it didn't happen. Denial made the pain no easier to tolerate, delayed the grief for only so long.

Everyone may lie, but the truth always catches up in the end. Why should she submit herself to the exhausting chase? Better to accept this hurt for what it was and then move on.

Cameron always had been a very practical person.

Clara, Allison's half-sister who had made sure that all of Allison's dreams had turned to reality, who had cared for and loved the doctor unconditionally with patience, humor and wisdom, was dead.

She had died of breast cancer.

The death had been long, painful and unpleasant for everyone involved. Clara had withstood it all with the utmost poise, and now her suffering was over. She had moved on, if not to a better place, then to somewhere the disease couldn't hurt her any longer.

Who was Allison, to ask any more than that? An end to her sister's pain?

And so she tried to be grateful, to remind herself of that very important fact.

Clara's pain was over.

Now her family's was just beginning. And they, unlike Allison, lacked the experience to cope with loss. Didn't understand the depth of pain they were about to be faced with.

She hadn't had the time yet, to fully contemplate her own.

After what seemed like days, weeks, years, Allison confronted the black dress. She had bought it a month ago, just for this occasion. To be worn once and then thrown away. Never to be touched again.

She slipped it over her head, felt the silk brush against her skin, deceptively soothing as it gently fell into place around her calves.

It took far more will than it should have not to tear the material off in that instant, staring into her bedroom mirror and fleetingly wishing that the day was through.

Grief is always distasteful.

Twelve hours of publicly displaying a modified, socially acceptable, version of this despair was hell.

She arrived first, to the church. Walked up and down the aisles, wondering if Clara would have approved. Her sister never had been fond of churches, but this one was nice. Simple, almost plain, but beautiful. The way the sparse light that made its way through the thunderclouds came in through the stained glass, creating a muted mural of colors on the carpeted floor.

Clara would have loved that, at least.

After a short time she sat down in the front pew, the designated spot for family, staring critically at the altar. Staring at the mahogany coffin. Pointedly not thinking of what, who, lay inside.

It was just a shell, after all. A beloved shell, one that Allison had cared for deeply, but a shell nonetheless.

Shells, no matter how intensely treasured, didn't love back.

--

It was a Sunday afternoon, three months after Wilson's diagnosis, when Matt decided that it was high time the family had a picnic.

Allison had frowned at the notion. For the past month she had been all but living with her sister's family, as had Sammy and Will, the three helping Mark take care of his wife and child while he attempted not to let the surrounding circumstances overwhelm him. It was hard, to keep up a façade of contentment and strength when half of your world was dying.

It was apparent that the family needed a break from the constant medications, from the chemo sessions and the persistent fear that when Clara took another breath, it could very well be her last. But, despite this, when Allison glanced at her sister, saw the skeletal outline of her body, how weak she had become, how she was in a perpetual state of exhaustion, the doctor had no choice but to internally dismiss the boy's hopeful declaration as impossible.

But, perhaps simply to be contrary and spite her very concerned younger sibling, Clara had agreed to the idea happily, starting to struggle out of the bed that had begun to consume her in the past months before the request had left her son's lips.

Or maybe it wasn't spite that motivated her. More likely, she simply wanted to do something to make Matt happy, to remind herself that she was still capable of it.

It had been a lot of work, and more than once Mark tried to turn the van around, convinced that Clara didn't have the strength to leave bed, much less go gallivanting about a park.

But through the gentle persuasion the woman was famous for, Clara coaxed him into completing the trip, promising him that she would be careful and that, should she feel unwell, she would be the first to demand that they return home.

Mark had given in, too tired to attempt to argue with his wife, even in her weakened state.

It was a dangerous thing, after all, to argue with Clara.

When they arrived, Matt and Sammy took much joy in laying out a blanket while Mark, Will and Allison helped Clara out of the car, the large man hauling her to the spot his son and sister had proudly claimed under a tree and setting her down gently, the two sharing a look of such caring and longing that Allison felt intrusive for having witnessed it. As if it was something too intimate for her to have been allowed to observe.

Before long everyone was comfortably settled, Clara seemingly tired, but no worse for the trip. In fact, in comparison to the dreary demeanor that had been adopted within the past week, the entire group seemed happier. With addition of sunshine and an escape from the oppressive environment the Samson home had become, in a matter of minutes the family had returned to the comforting dynamic of innocent insanity.

And Allison, laughing along with the rest, entranced by the clean air, the sight of her family cheerful and carefree for the first time in months, allowed herself to forget what was to come. Let herself indulge in an innocence she had long since left behind, just for a few hours.

It had been horrible, stripping herself of that innocence at the end of the evening.

Midway through the afternoon Matt, after exploiting the 'love me please' look Sammy had taught him, managed to get his father, Sammy and Will to join him on the playground. Allison had pleaded exhaustion and, as such, was currently enjoying observing the heated game of freeze-tag taking place as she made herself a sandwich.

"I only want one thing from you, Al."

Allison turned away from the battle raging on in the playground, raising an eyebrow at her sister.

"Only one?" She sent the woman a suspicious look. "Ever again?"

Clara tilted her head. "Well, no," she admitted somewhat reluctantly. "I actually want two things from you."

Allison raised a brow in question.

"The first is your sandwich."

Allison scowled.

Clara just gave her a bright grin.

With a sigh Allison threw up her hands, shoving her hard-made meal into the psychologist's eager fingers.

The older woman wore a smug look on her face as she took a large bite, grinning in satisfaction as she chewed. "Yum," she mumbled, lettuce falling out of her mouth.

Allison shook her head sadly, doing her best to suppress a smile. "And you're supposed to be a role model."

Clara swallowed. "I am a role model. I enjoy my food thoroughly. There's no shame in that."

The immunologist glared. "No, you enjoy _my_ food thoroughly." She pulled out two more slices of bread, rummaging through the condiments. "The last time I checked, there was a good amount of shame to be found in stealing."

Clara pointed an accusing finger. "You gave it to me!"

"You asked for it!"

Clara furrowed her brow. "Oh what a horrible thing for me to have done."

She blinked at her younger sister.

Allison huffed as she grabbed for the meat. "You know I can't say no to you when you ask for something."

Clara smirked. "Well that seems more like your shortcoming than mine, doesn't it?"

The immunologist glared.

Clara simply smiled as she took another bite of the sandwich. "I love you too."

Allison grumbled, getting some tomatoes. "And what was your second request, sister dear?"

Clara held up a finger, increasing the rate of her chewing and swallowing her mouthful of food quickly. She straightened as much as she could on the ground, expression quickly becoming serious.

She stared at Allison intently. "Be happy."

The younger woman frowned, confused, setting down the beginnings of her second sandwich. "I am happy, Clara."

"You're satisfied," Clara said with a sad grin. "Not happy."

Allison scowled, grabbing for the sandwich once more. "Yes, well, you tell me the difference between satisfaction and happiness then." She looked around for the lettuce. "Because I certainly don't know what it is."

"The difference," Clara said, quickly taking another bite, "is that you've settled for what you have."

The doctor's head shot up, a frown on her face.

Clara looked at her, her expression containing… Pity?

"You've settled for this." She groped around for a napkin, still speaking. "For living life through your job and wanting what you can't have."

Allison opened her mouth to give an angry retort, but Clara didn't provide her with the opportunity.

"For fixing and mending and then moving on when they're not broken any more, before you can lose what you spent so much time trying to heal." She smiled sadly.

Allison lowered her head, refocusing her attention on her sandwich, trying not to recall her husband.

A hand grasped at her wrist, thin, frail and stark in appearance, clinging to her in desperation.

The young woman looked up into her sister's eyes.

"There's so much more, Al." Clara smiled. "You just need to stop being afraid, stay instead of leave, open your eyes and see it." A note of panic went into her voice as her grip tightened. "Promise me you'll try to do more of that."

Allison stared mutely for a moment, taking in the sight of fierce desperation on a woman who was normally so calm. The pleading face of a dying woman.

"Of course I will, Clara."

The woman seemed to let out a large sigh of relief, slumping backwards, leaning against a tree. "Good." She released her sister's hand, pulling her sweater more firmly around herself. "Good."

Allison frowned. "Are you okay, Clara?"

The older woman waved an impatient arm. "I'm fine."

"Should we leave?" Allison leaned forward, hand going to check her sister's pulse.

"No, not yet." Clara grinned, gently shooing away her younger sibling's hands. "I'm not done with my sandwich yet." She brought the bread to her lips and took a large bite.

Allison shook her head, a faint grin on her face as she finished the creation of her second sandwich, reaching for a napkin.

"Oh, a sandwich."

Allison turned just in time to see Will biting off a third of her meal in one go.

"Thanks sis."

She just glared.

"Now that," Clara remarked as the others came back from the playground, taking another nibble at her food, "was stealing."

--

Allison inspected the altar for some time, marveling at the pretty picture the flowers gave death. She turned when she heard Will, walking briskly to the front pew, staring at her expectantly as she sat neatly, legs crossed, hands folded on her lap. The picture of serenity.

Will extended his arms, turning fully around and allowing his sister to examine him. His hair dyed to his natural muted brown, all rings, piercings and chains removed from his person, tattoos covered by a respectable black suit.

No tie, but one could only ask for so much.

Will raised his eyebrows in question, looking at Allison expectantly.

"Satisfied?"

She grinned, standing up and giving him a gentle hug. "Very."

He returned the embrace fiercely, strong, sinewy arms clinging to her desperately. "She wouldn't approve, you know." He laughed bitterly, lowering his head, speaking into her shoulder. "Hell, Al. She's the one who got me started on the piercing in the first place."

Allison smiled. "And the tattoos, if I remember right." She rubbed his back with long, firm strokes, hearing the hitch in his voice. "I know she wouldn't." She carefully loosened his arms from around her, holding him in front of her at arms length, straightening his jacket. "But appearances must be kept." She leaned forward and kissed his cheek.

Will rolled his eyes, sniffing and wiping at his cheeks, even though no tears had fallen. "Still playing mother, even now."

She grinned. "It's my job."

He smiled and sat down at the pew, tugging Allison down to his right. "As soon as this shit is through I'm dying it magenta in her honor."

Another grin. "She'd like that."

He gave an authoritative nod. "Damn straight she would."

Allison laughed and resisted the urge to ruffle his hair.

Will, even at twenty-eight, was her baby brother. The one she and Clara had raised since he was seven, who they had accurately marked as a ladies man since his infancy, who had given them kisses and flowers for extra slices of cake.

And no amount of metal or shades of various horrendous hair colors could make her forget that little boy, much to Will's chagrin.

Before long Dennis arrived, one of Clara's closest friends from grad school. He had reluctantly accepted the task of the master of ceremonies, none of the family willing to attempt such a feat. Not even Allison had the courage for that.

The others came soon after, Sammy leading Mark to the front of the room, his hand firmly clasped in hers, Matt trailing behind.

The large man, usually a cheerful, reassuring presence, looked lost. Forlorn. Defeated.

It hurt, to see such a strong man broken.

Sammy got Mark settled at the edge of the pew, sitting next to him and exchanging a look with Allison, her hand still entwined with her brother's.

Allison let out a small sigh. Sammy would take care of Mark today.

Leaning forward in her seat, Allison held out her hand to the small boy still standing, trails of tears already streaming down his face.

Matt looked at the offered hand, then back up to his aunt.

"Hello, Aunt Al."

Allison smiled. "Hello, Matt."

Matt gave a half-hearted grin in response.

Blinking rapidly to clear her eyes, Allison took Matt's hand in hers and pulled him forward, setting him on her lap and hugging him fiercely. She knew he was too big for it, that under any other circumstances he would have pushed her away, blushing and awkward as he straightened the suit he was wearing.

But these weren't any other circumstances, and he leaned back into her, letting out small sobs as she rocked him, whispered reassurances into his ear and told him how much they all loved him.

In a few minutes it was through, and Matt shifted on her lap, Allison letting him go and allowing him to take the seat to her right, sniffing as he spared a glance to his father, tears silently streaming down the man's face.

Matt looked scared.

Will poked his head out from the other side of Allison.

"Hey, Squirt."

Matt turned away from his father to look at his uncle, a question in his eyes.

"You think my hair would look good if it was magenta?"

The boy grinned, giving a nod.

"You want to come with me when I get it done?"

Another nod.

"Awesome." Will smiled. "Maybe we can get something done to yours too, eh?"

Matt's face lit up at the same instant Allison sent her brother a warning glare.

Will coughed, looking at his older sibling nervously. "Well, we'll see." He looked back to Matt, ruffling the boy's hair fondly. "Hang in there, Kid."

Matt took in a deep breath and nodded, returning his gaze to the coffin at the front of the room.

Allison sent Will a thankful smile, which he responded to with a wink.

And then, suddenly, without Allison being aware of how it had happened, the Church was filled to the brim with people and Dennis was speaking, sharing kind words about Clara, bringing those around her to tears.

Acting on instinct, allowing herself to shut down into autopilot, Allison brought a hand to Will's forearm, knowing that although he wasn't in tears, it was only pride that kept him from weeping openly. Her other arm she wrapped around Matt's shoulders, the boy shaking from his silent sobs. Down the pew, Mark was stoic, unmoving as he stared blankly ahead, liquid falling from his eyes unceasingly. Sammy was similar next to him, arm around his waist, tears trailing down her face.

It was amazing, how many people could cry without making a sound.

Allison let it all happen, numbly doing what was expected of her, allowing the meaningful words to sweep over and through her, without actually listening to any of them. She had no doubt that they were heartfelt and sincere; she simply couldn't afford to hear them.

She carefully remained mute and dumb for the entire service, only taking note of the opening and closing of the entrance to the church, frowning when all other activity stopped and the group turned towards the late arrival.

Allison didn't bother. To move might shatter her carefully crafted stability. Movement might make her lose some of the self-control that she was clinging so frantically to.

She needed that control. The people she loved needed it.

She couldn't afford to turn.

And so it was in this same state of numbness that she drove the family to the cemetery, that she stood with them in the rain, watching as the shell was covered.

And then she drove them home, mentally checking their vital signs as they stepped through the doors.

Sammy had regained herself, looked sure, confident and capable. She would be fine throughout the night. Will was similar, although he stretched the collar of his shirt uncomfortably. He had never been one for socializing with large crowds. Allison would ask him to stay with Mark, later in the night.

Poor Mark, tears dried, sorrow all but dripping from him. The sadness hanging around like a cloud, impenetrable. Thick enough to destroy a lesser man.

Yes, Will would have to watch him.

Matt was tired and quiet, eyes glued to his father, observing with a silent sort of terror that can only be known by children who has lost a parent, suddenly without guidance in a world where it is so desperately needed. Allison would be sure to check on him, throughout the night, attempt to be there for the young boy as much as she could.

There was simply so much to be done.

When she opened the doors to the Samsons' home the family filed in, quickly dispersing themselves amongst the mourners. Arrangements had been made, primarily by Allison, and a family friend had let guests in, the alcohol had been enticingly displayed, elegant wine glasses ready for use, a modest selection of food offered, although Allison suspected that no one was truly hungry.

She slowly made her way through the room, accepting condolences from neighbors, patients and colleagues of Clara, making the obligatory remarks, offering a story or two, then quietly moving on to the next group, ready to repeat the experience once more.

Mark and Matt had found a comfortable niche among family friends, clinging to their companions desperately, Mark eyeing the others in his house with suspicion, resentment.

What right did they have, these people Mark barely knew, to mourn Clara in this way? Who had given them the right to stand in the same room with him, to compare their pain to his? There was no comparison, not in the mind of the spouse who had been forced to watch their loved one die while these people sat in their offices, barely sparing her a thought as they filed paperwork.

Allison understood this resentment well.

Will was on the outskirts of the group, leaning against a wall and sipping at a glass of wine, eyes on his brother-in-law as shifted awkwardly in the crowd.

Will had always been a perceptive boy, when he so chose.

Sammy was making her way through the house, taking and cleaning glasses, mingling briefly with guests, picking up after the messes that were made, making sure that everyone was offered food. She was a constant flurry of activity, and it was with slight amusement that Allison saw Chase watching her every move, one step away from fluttering on the sidelines.

It was a comfort to know that Sammy had someone looking after her.

That Allison had one less person to care for.

It was not too long after the family arrived, when Allison was in between mourners, that she ran into House.

And that did not belong in the equation that she had carefully concocted for the evening. House, standing there in the corner, leaning heavily on his cane, glaring at anyone who came within ten feet of him, was an unforeseen variable that Cameron was not prepared for. It threw her off her carefully constructed plan, made her uneasy. Made it impossible for her to continue on in the manner she had been managing quite admirably for the past thirteen hours.

"What are you doing here?"

Cameron frowned as the words came out of her mouth, wondering why her tone had been so harsh. Without realizing it she had crossed her arms over her chest, tensed her shoulders and shifted her feet, making herself smaller.

"Nice to see you too, darling," House muttered sarcastically, shifting his feet for a moment before leaning against his cane once more. "Just thought I'd swing by after a long day at the office."

Cameron simply glared.

"I came to the funeral because the She-Devil made me." House gave a dramatic sigh. "And I'm still here because Boy Wonder won't let me leave."

Her head jerked up. "Wilson's here?"

House gestured behind her, Cameron spinning around to see the oncologist chatting pleasantly with Emily and other members of Clara's organization.

She couldn't help the intense feeling of relief that washed through her when she saw him.

It must have shown, because when she turned back to House he was squinting thoughtfully at her, an inquisitive look on his face.

Cameron coughed awkwardly. "Thank you." She looked up at him. "For coming." Another uncomfortable shift. "She would have appreciated it."

House leaned against a wall, eyebrow raised. "Do you?"

"Yes," she answered instantly.

"Why?"

"Because she would be proud of you."

House frowned, obviously expecting a different response from his underling.

Cameron was painfully aware of this fact.

"You," a small pause, "and Wilson," she added quickly and resisted the urge gulp. "You don't have to stay."

House smirked. "Good, because we aren't going to." He tapped his cane on the ground in front of him, deliberately not looking at the immunologist. "Do you want us to stay?"

She remained silent, uncertain.

House looked at her intently. "Do you want him to?"

Cameron let out a breath of air. "I…"

House smirked. "You don't know, do you?"

She gaped, attempting to speak, having no notion of what to say.

House let out a bitter laugh, striding past her as fast as his limp would allow. "You have no idea what you want."

She saw him grab Wilson by the arm, tugging him away from the crowds, out of the house, out of the grief. Away from her.

And it hurt, because in the instant she had become aware of his presence, she realized how much she appreciated it.

Only to have it snatched away.

Allison was thrown off balance by the encounter the rest of the night; uncertain and cautious, losing the renowned composure that had managed to carry her, and her entire family, through the ordeal of Clara's death thus far. Without it, she began to feel as if the world was coming undone at the seams.

Where before she had quietly approached mourners and conversed pleasantly with them, expressing thanks and reassurances, now she found that her words failed her. She would come upon another section of the wearily depressed masses, only to find she had nothing to say. No way to bolster them, comfort them. Make them believe that things really were going to be all right, even if they weren't.

She wasn't the only one unsettled by this.

She decided that the best course of action to take was to avoid people, rather than risk the showing them the shattered remains of the illusion she had carefully crafted for them.

No one likes the sight of a beautiful thing that's been broken.

In the midst of her evading, Matt approached her. "Aunt Al," he looked up at her, expression concerned. "Aunt Al, are you okay?"

And it was all Allison could do to nod, send him a quavering smile, and continue on her way, knowing that she left devastation in her wake.

Fortunately, when she spotted him later in the night, Matt was all but clinging to Foreman, her nephew and colleague seated on the stairs, drinking apple juice, discussing life and death.

It surprised her, to see the neurologist present, much less offering his ear to a depressed boy. Offering his advice, his time. Foreman, as a rule, took little interest in anything outside of his own personally tailored world. Cameron was permitted access because she worked with him, because he liked to believe that he could somehow shelter her, keep her safe from House. But that consideration, under normal circumstances, would never extend to Matt.

He caught her eye as she was peering around the corner, and he raised his apple-juice glass to her, an ironic expression on his face, before returning back to the boy, expression serious once more.

Allison could only hope she would be able to find some way to repay Foreman, once this was all through.

Chase was still dutifully on Sammy's trail, which she blazed with an intensity Allison was amazed Chase could match. At one point she saw the intensivist pull her sister-in-law aside, gathering her into his arms, in a showing of gentleness from Chase that Allison had never been permitted to see, and held her.

It wasn't much, Chase simply stopping the young woman from moving for five minutes while the rest of the world continued at its rapid pace. But it was enough.

Then, once the time allotted had been spent, he had sighed, kissed her forehead and let her go, the young woman leaning forward and joining her lips to his, despite the tears that might have ruined it, before setting off once more.

Chase, with a mildly dazed expression, followed.

It was amazing, how one could work with people for years and yet never really know them.

Allison blankly made her way through the rest of the evening, sheltering her strained equanimity as best she could, thinking of any and everything except for Clara.

Because thinking about her would destroy the illusion completely.

After an immeasurable amount of time had passed, Allison found herself in a nearly empty home, only the residents and a few, terribly empathetic, stragglers remaining behind to help pick up after the mass showing of suffering.

Allison numbly went through the residence, gathering dirty tablecloths, paper plates and cups, disposing of them properly. She absorbed herself in these mundane tasks, allowed them to consume her.

It meant that she didn't have to think, didn't have to feel.

She had already failed her family by her loss of self-control. She would not fail herself by succumbing to the grief she could feel building just beneath her shallow surface.

It was while she was in the midst of clearing off a table that she felt a gentle tap on her shoulder, rousing her from her forced state of calm.

"Can I take you home, Cameron?"

Allison turned to see the most welcome sight. "Wilson?"

He stood a foot away, hands in his pockets, shifting awkwardly on his feet, the boyish grin on his face that charmed even the bitterest of souls.

It felt too good, to see him there. Too selfish. She shouldn't be taking pleasure in his presence, when he was mourning for Clara. What sort of person did that make her, to be glad that he was there, suffering? To be happy because he was suffering with her?

It felt much too nice, to be close to him.

She shook herself. "What are you still doing here?"

He gave a sardonic grin. "A certain limping miscreant took my vehicle and I am left without transportation."

Allison smiled. "And you want to take me home?" She raised an eyebrow. "Shouldn't you be begging me for a lift?"

"Under normal circumstances, yes." He lifted a finger. "However, after being duped by a cripple, called a sissy by your younger brother," he leaned forward and rolled his eyes, "multiple times, for discussing various cooking methods with Grandma Samson, and talking with the woman who helped decorate this house for several hours, I have a desperate need to reclaim my manhood." He gave a pathetic sigh. "Driving a car, I hope, will be enough to accomplish this."

Allison nodded her head, adopting a serious expression. "I can understand why this would be a priority for you."

He returned the nod. "A necessity, really." His smile slowly faded as he gave her a once over, gaze finally settling on her eyes. "You look tired, Cameron."

She was. Oh, how terribly tired she was.

"Let me take you home." James looked at her, deep brown eyes almost pleading with her, sincerity and desperation apparent in just that single stare. "Please."

In that moment, she could deny him nothing.

"Okay," Allison said without further thought, anything to appease this man who, she was coming to find, meant much more to her than she realized.

And that thought was enough to shake her out of the blissful complacency she had slipped into at his presence.

He wasn't supposed to mean more to her.

She shook herself, turning back towards the table. "Just a few more things I should take care of..."

James frowned, stepping closer. "Cameron."

Allison shook her head, picking up some silverware. "I just need to help clean up the kitchen-"

"Allison," he interrupted gently, taking the dirty dishes from her hands and staring at her seriously. "Stop."

And Allison found she couldn't pull herself away from that stare.

"He's right, Al."

The new voice released her and she turned towards the sound, seeing Sammy standing by the entrance to the kitchen. She gave a reassuring smile. "Go home. We'll take care of it from here."

She gave Allison a pat on the shoulder and then walked back into the tiled room, Chase appearing from around a corner with a pot in-hand, asking where it belonged.

"Allison?"

She looked back to James.

"Let me help you this time." He gave a small smile. "Okay?"

Perhaps it was because she suddenly found herself exhausted, so overcome by the events of the day and more than ready to abandon it all to whatever relief rest would allow, but in that instant it seemed so natural for Allison to look up at him and say, "Okay."

And so she muttered her goodbyes and allowed herself to be led out of the house, feeling James' hands hovering above her back as they made their way to her car. Not touching, but close.

Allison mutely handed over the keys to her car as they reached the vehicle, knowing full well that she wasn't alert enough to drive without the threat of causing a serious accident.

James accepted them without comment.

They drove in silence, the oncologist getting Allison's address before she closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the seat, trying not to think.

Think about the funeral. What it meant. Who she was saying goodbye to. It was always hard, thinking of all of those who had been stolen from her, taken away long before Allison was willing to give them up. Especially now, so soon after. When the sting was still fresh.

She tried not to think of Clara, of her smiling face and her courage, her humor and spirit. The way she could take care of everyone, protecting people who could not protect themselves. Her generous and giving nature, the way she could never sit idly back as others suffered. How she was a wonderful mother and wife, all of her faults and mistakes in such fields easily outweighed by her successes. Matt really was a brilliant boy.

She tried not to think about what Clara meant to her. How she had helped Allison through every trial and tribulation she had ever faced, aiding, comforting and advising her sister throughout childhood, adolescence and adulthood, asking nothing in return. Allison attempted not to think about what her life would be like, now that Clara was gone. Tried not to recall how desperately she needed her older sister. Tried to forget how much she loved Clara.

When people die, it hurts because we love them so much.

"Allison?"

She opened her eyes, ignoring the wetness she felt on her cheeks, sniffing and attempting to cling to the last thread of composure that was left to her after this hellish day.

The car was parked and Allison dimly noted her apartment complex in the background as James examined her critically, his concern almost palpable as he gave her a worried glance. He raised a hand as if to wipe away the tears on her face, only to rest it against the side of the passenger's chair instead.

"Allison." He leaned forward. "Are you all right?"

And looking into those brown orbs, distracted by their depths and tired of pretending, she didn't bother to create a clever lie.

"No." She looked down at her hands. "No, I'm not, James." She looked up and gave a half-hearted smile, feeling another onset of tears begin to fall. "I'm not at all."

And with that the floodgates broke, and Allison's vision became blurry, her world began to spin and she found herself completely incapable of doing anything except for crying.

She brought a hand to her brow, wiping distractedly at the small rivers coming from her eyes, body wracking with sobs.

She had forgotten, how powerful hurt like this could be.

Allison was still crying violently when gentle hands grasped her arms, carefully pulling her out of the car and then lightly guiding her, fingers clasped in hers, urging her forward when she wanted nothing more than to collapse, to puddle to the floor and weep. Weep for a woman who had given so much and who had been denied the opportunity to give more.

"I loved her so much, James," she gasped out between her sobs, feeling her lungs start to burn, the earth shifting under her feet.

She was brought to a stop, his hand still holding on to hers, hearing James' muffled curses as he dug inside his pocket.

"I need her," Allison moaned quietly, the intensity of her tears increasing as she held onto his hand more fiercely, like a lifeline.

The sound of metal objects being jangled together met her ears.

"I know," James whispered, thumb moving soothingly against the skin of her palm as he fumbled with keys. "I know."

"I need her," a gasp, "but she's not here." An overpowering sense of vertigo overtook her and she stumbled, grasping onto James shoulder as she staggered. "And it hurts." Another huge intake of breath, accompanied by weeping. "It hurts so much."

There was a small click and then she was being pulled forward.

"And it never gets better." She shook her head frantically, thinking of Brian. "You get better at ignoring it, but it never goes away." Another fierce sob ripped its way through her throat. "You always need them, and they never come back." More frenzied head shaking. "Never."

The world rotated dangerously.

Then there were arms around her, gathering her close and pulling her to a strong chest. "Shh… I know, Allison. I know it hurts." He grabbed her shoulders, pushing her back slightly, creating space between them. "But right now I need you to take a deep breath for me, okay?" He gave her a stern, anxious look, shaking her a bit when she didn't respond. "Okay?"

Allison nodded, knowing he was right, knowing she needed to calm down.

She just had no idea how to go about it.

James stared at her in concern. "Breathe, Allison."

She took in a gasping mouthful of air.

James smiled. "That's good," he said with a relieved laugh. "Now again."

Slowly, Allison took another breath.

"Good." He grinned again.

How she loved seeing him smile.

He brought a hand to her hair, stroking it soothingly. "Feel better?"

She breathed again, noting how the world had stopped spinning, how her head was clear once more. The warm feel of James' skin against hers.

Yes, this was much better.

Allison moved to nod, bringing her head down and noticing the mess she had made of his shirt with her tears. "Oh." She backed away, getting a clearer view of his, now ruined, suit. "I'm sorry…"

James followed her gaze and smirked. "For this?" He gestured down to the shirt. "Peh." He waved a hand dismissively. "Never liked this tie anyway."

Allison snorted. James brought a hand to her back and guided her to a couch. It was only then that she realized that they were in her apartment.

"Besides," James continued. "Snot looks good on me." He grinned. "Adds a certain air of dignity."

She laughed as she sat down, reaching forward and taking a tissue from her box on the table.

He gave her a few moments, content to sit quietly while she gathered herself, knowing better than to push her.

She was so grateful to him, for that. For everything.

She didn't know what she would have done without James these past months. Just his presence was enough to ease her, relax her, soothe her when everything in her world was thrown into a chaotic mess. He had become her rock, her foundation, that which she leaned upon when the universe came crashing down around her.

Her gratitude and appreciation towards him for aiding her, being with her, was endless.

"I'm so sorry, Allison."

She frowned, looking up from her Kleenex.

He sat up straight on the couch, hand clasped to the back of his neck, kneading the skin, staring at the upholstery of her cheap couch.

Allison resisted the urge to pry his fingers away from the much-abused skin. To ease that ache, real or imaginary, more tenderly.

"I just wish there was something I can do, something I could say to make it better." He sighed, looking up at her. "I just wish I could make it hurt less."

Allison frowned, confused. "Like you do already?"

James gave a small smile, shaking his head. "Only better." His hand moved towards her face again, but he halted it once more, bringing it back to his neck. "I don't want to see you suffer, see you pretending for the sake of everyone else." He looked at her ruefully, regret plain on every feature. "I want to help you."

She closed her eyes, marveling as she shook her head, confounded by his unwarranted fears of inadequacy. Of failure.

Couldn't he see? Didn't he know how much he meant to her, how he had managed to make these horrible, painful, agonizing months, this whole unfortunate year, bearable?

Allison knew that she was teetering on an edge that she had sworn to avoid, aware of the dangers of falling off this particular cliff. Knew the possibility of loss they faced, how very easily they could hurt each other, if they so chose.

Knew that she had a choice.

There's so much more, Al. You just need to stop being afraid, stay instead of leave, open your eyes and see it.

Allison opened her eyes.

She stayed.

She edged closer to him, taking the hand attached to his neck in her own.

He started at that, almost flinching back at the unexpected contact, causing Allison to smile as she brought their entwined fingers down to his lap.

She looked at him seriously, locking his eyes in hers.

"You do already."

And then Allison leaned forward and kissed him.


	14. Your Disappointments In My Heart

**Drenched **

**Summary:** House enjoys the company of a patient- obviously signaling the apocalypse, Wilson is getting a divorce, Chase is falling head over heels, Foreman's thinking of leaving the team and Cameron's sister has cancer. At least it's not raining. Yet.

**Disclaimer:** There was once a brilliant man who owned House. This brilliant person brought joy to thousands, nay, millions, across the globe. His soul was a boundless, generous thing, from which the fantasies and delusions of countless fans were sustained. This man was quickly raised to a level of godliness amongst these fans, and lived out the rest of their days in splendor and bliss. Alas, I am not this person. House belongs to David Shore and Fox. "It Doesn't Get Much Better Than This" is the work of Nicole Burdette.

**Author's Note:** I am so unbelievably sorry that it extends the normal range of regret. You'd have to become a thousand times more remorseful than the guiltiest soul alive to even approach the depth of shame I feel. –shame- Oh dear readers, how I must have tested your fortitude by taking so ridiculously long with this chapter!

In all seriousness, thank you all for being so patient with me. I had no intention of taking this long to update and it has simply been a matter of terrible timing that has kept me from getting this chapter up sooner. Again, this wait was ridiculous (and at a very cruel time, plot-wise) and I can only hope that you guys won't hate me forever. –adopts puppy face- You don't hate me, do you? –big watery eyes-

**LastScorpion**, my hero, has looked over everything save for the last section of this chapter. And while I should be a good person and wait for her comments and corrections… Um. I'm not going to. Because I'm a loser like that. However, she has worked her magic on the other three sections, so you have her to thank for your eyes not falling off. (And I will be updating with the rest of her corrections as soon as I get them in.) I give her my sincere thanks and my soul for all of her hard work. Yay for **LastScorpion**!

This story is cannon-compatible up to "Skin Deep."

Reviews/Reviewers are loved.

Thank you and enjoy!

**EDIT:** Sorry for anyone who thought this was a new chapter. Just wanted to post the new, improved, Chapter Ten. Last section is now **LastScorpion** approved! Many thanks to her yet again! (And I'm sorry about all of those mistakes. –wince- I should never update without her help. Ever.) Also, thank you to reviewers who pointed out mistakes. (Like in the title! Eek! Thank you **phineyj**!) And, finally, at the request of **LastScorpion**, there has been a little addition to the last section. Because she's awesome and anything she wants that I can manage shall be hers.-grin-

Thank you and enjoy (again)!

---

**Chapter Ten: Your Disappointments In My Heart**

_And I want your smile always  
And your grimaces too.  
I want your scar on my lips  
__And I want your disappointments in my heart.  
-Nicole Burdette_

---

Wilson woke up with the shock of one surrounded by the feel of unfamiliar sheets.

Not that these sheets were, by any means, bad sheets. Far from it. They were quite comfy, really, and he would be certain to look into buying some of his own when he had more of his senses about him.

No, the sheets were nice.

They just weren't his.

They were hers.

And that realization hit him like a ton of bricks.

He glanced to his left only to be graced with the sight of the sleeping form of Allison Cameron, on her stomach with an arm between her head and the pillow, hair fanning around her face in a mused, beautiful mess, sheets wrapped around her body.

She really was an amazing woman.

James had no notion as to what he had done to deserve her.

--

Her mouth tasted like honey and felt like velvet.

That was all Wilson would allow himself to think for the first instant of the kiss. As she leaned over him, a hand on his chest, mouth demanding, needy, on top of his. As her tongue slipped in between his lips and he lost himself to the sensation of having, in whatever small way, Allison Cameron.

But it was only an instant.

In the next moment he remembered who she was and who she belonged to. Who she loved.

He brought his hands to her shoulders, gently pushing her away, marveling at the feel of her skin under his hands, wishing that she wasn't so soft.

It was hard, letting go of something that felt so smooth.

She looked at him, eyes wide.

He took a deep breath. "Cameron, Allison." He glanced in front of him, noticing that he had yet to release her shoulders, that he had no wish to stop touching her.

He pulled his hands away quickly, as if they burned, bringing one to his neck and rubbing.

"Now's not the time." Not the time at all. "You're sad, mourning." Much more vulnerable than she realized. "You don't know what you're doing."

Grief can do many things to a person. Make them believe that they crave something familiar, something constant. Whatever she felt for him in this moment, in this little span of time, it wasn't real.

She shook her head in instant denial. "I do." She grabbed the hand that was kneading at his neck, just as she had mere moments before, trapping it between her own. "I know exactly what I'm doing, exactly what I want."

She examined his hand carefully, fingers smoothing over knuckles, nails, turning it to trail over his palm, studying each crease and indent in the skin. As if she wanted to memorize its every detail.

It took all of Wilson's will power, not to reach out his free hand to touch her.

"I have known." She looked up at him, smiling weakly. "It's just taken me this long to realize it."

She kissed his palm gently, surprising Wilson into stillness, before leaning forward again and pressing her lips to his, gliding her tongue into his mouth with a remarkable ease, with an almost practiced familiarity that Wilson wanted nothing more than to embrace fully. It was startling, how right she felt pressed against him, how natural it would have been to wrap his arms around her, to touch and caress every inch of her before carrying her to the bedroom and taking care of her the way he knew she needed to be. The way no one else would.

The way she wanted someone else to.

He pulled away from her, almost gasping for lack of air, trying not to feel her rapid breaths against his neck, her body next to his on the small sofa.

He couldn't.

God he wanted to, but he couldn't.

She didn't know how much he desired this, how badly he had been fighting the way he felt, slowly suppressing the longings until he had convinced himself they were never there. She didn't know, now, when she was so sad, so needy, who she loved. Wouldn't be willing to distinguish between a friend and someone more.

She loved House.

But he wasn't there and Wilson was. And although Wilson wanted nothing more than to help her in whatever way he could, give whatever it was that she felt she needed, he didn't want her to hate herself in the morning.

He tried to tug his hand away. "Allison-"

She tightened her grip. "James, please." She looked at him desperately.

He sighed. "Allison..." How could he explain? "You don't-" He finally pulled his hand away, swiping at his hair, trying not to look at her. "I'm not who you want."

She shook her head firmly, looking at him intently. "You are."

Wilson sighed audibly.

She shifted, tilting her head, forcing him to meet her gaze. "James." A reassuring hand went to his knee. "It's you." She squeezed gently. "I swear, it's you."

A small, significant, pause.

"Not House."

He looked up, knowing that any attempts he could have made to hide his surprise would fail utterly.

She smiled gently at him. "I want you." She stared at him earnestly. "Please."

A combination of determination and vulnerability highlighted her features. Her eyes begged and demanded he give into her. That he allow her this one victory, this thing that she needed so frantically.

That he wanted so badly.

And when she looked at him like that, James found that he could deny her nothing.

And so he eliminated the distance between them, looking at her with an intensity that they could both feel, trying to see through her skin, inside of her head, wishing he could be privy to her deepest thoughts and desires, that he knew as adamantly as she did that this was what she wanted.

But he was left with nothing for his examination save for more of that illogical desire, that pull he felt towards her. Like a moth to flame.

He knew it wasn't smart. Knew that the circumstances were wrong, the motives were twisted and that her emotions were bound to be a tangled mess of massive feeling. Knew that she probably wanted nothing more than something to help her forget, despite her pleas to the contrary.

Wilson knew all of this. But with her looking at him with that face, beautiful and scared, every lovely feature anticipating rejection, staring at him as if he was her last hope, common sense seemed to lose its significance.

He gently cupped her cheek with a hand, carefully gliding his fingers against her skin, memorizing the texture as she leaned against his palm, making him smile.

When she glanced up, opening her mouth to question him, James kissed her, silencing her as he tasted her again, marveling at all of the flavors of her, detailing each sensation mentally. The way her body felt against his, her hands pushing off his jacket, pulling away his tie, finding their way under his shirt and her nails trailing against his skin.

Even if only this once, he would have her.

Best to commit every bit of it to memory.

--

Wilson reluctantly looked away from her, half afraid that if took his eyes off her she'd disappear.

Because girls, women, like Allison Cameron didn't happen to James Wilson.

Not any more.

Quietly he detangled himself from the sheets, doing his best not to wake her as he searched the room for his clothes, finding familiar articles and gathering them quickly and silently before making his way to the bathroom.

Once there, with the door firmly closed and distance established between Wilson and her, he found rationality coming back to him in one painful wave.

He sighed, bringing a hand to his neck and staring at his reflection in bewilderment.

What had he done?

Wilson had no doubt that there was a distinct difference between what House had said last night (likely with a pound of Vicodin in his system to numb out the 'annoying weeping masses'), and what he had actually meant. But Wilson, in all of his pathetic longing and idiocy, had done the undeniably stupid and accepted what House had said at face value.

To House, 'not wanting' Cameron did not equate to having no interest, as much as the man would try to deny it.

After all, everybody lies.

And Allison, certainly, in the clear light of morning, would come to her senses and realize that she had made a mistake. That the words she had said had been inspired by grief and loneliness. That she hadn't meant any of them. Wilson only hoped she wouldn't despise herself for saying them.

If nothing else, the oncologist felt he knew that much about her. She would feel morally guilty for what had happened, apologize profusely, and then never speak to him again out of shame.

And Wilson didn't want that.

Even if he never got to touch her again, he couldn't be denied talking to her. Laughing with her. The sharing of thoughts and ideas, of plans and sorrows.

She was like a drug. Now that he had a taste of her, he found that he would never be willing to give her up completely.

Not unless she forced him to.

And Wilson couldn't allow that. Not yet.

With a firm sense of determination he dressed, straightening himself out as best he could, attempting to reach a mental normalcy.

It was simple. He just had to make sure that she didn't feel shame for what happened.

Then he could still take care of her. It would be from a distance, but he could still watch over her, be her friend.

That was all he really needed.

Not all he wanted, but Wilson knew that people couldn't always get what they wanted.

Once dressed Wilson carefully made his way to Allison's living room, a bit shocked by how small her apartment really was. He hadn't really noticed, the night before.

One bath, two bedrooms, a decently sized living/dinning room and a kitchen. Surprisingly, rather than suffocating the tiny space seemed homey. Welcoming. Maybe it was the warm yellow that covered the walls or the sparse but noticeable intimate trinkets tossed about (like family portraits, hand embroidered pillows and pictures drawn in crayon), but the space felt nice. Comfortable. More like a home than his own had felt in a long time.

Wilson internally froze.

Thoughts like those were dangerous.

He shook himself, all but cursing as he made his way into the living room.

Those were thoughts that he couldn't afford to have.

He had another life, one completely separate from her, and he was going to have to return to it shortly, for the good of everyone. It wouldn't be perfect, wouldn't be as good or as satisfying, but it would do. It would have to.

He needed to be certain that he remembered that.

With a clear plan of what he had to do, Wilson sat down on Allison's small sofa, prepared to convince the woman not to abandon him out of twisted feelings of remorse.

However, as Wilson noticed some twenty minutes later, said woman was sleeping soundly in her bedroom and was not, it appeared, going to wake up any time soon.

And sitting still was killing him.

In a flurry of movement he stood up and began to pace, striding up and down the small room with no destination other than away from his own mind.

Unfortunately, the pacing was having little effect save for reminding him just how small the apartment was, causing him to turn every two steps, slowly infuriating him with the repetition, the feeling of claustrophobia slowly settling over him, making him feel as if there was no escape from his thoughts.

Wilson forcibly stopped his movements, bringing his hands to his hair and pulling.

He had to calm down.

He was acting like he was in high school for God's sake.

And if Wilson was going to revert back to his teenage self, there was absolutely no hope for him.

He let out a large sigh before slowly releasing his hair from the death grip he placed on it.

His full head of hair remained in tact. Excellent.

The morning was going well.

But he was still restless.

And since there was no mindless paper work to fill out, no desire to leave and no reason to page the hospital, Wilson had few distractions to keep him from wearing a hole in the carpet.

Until he saw the kitchen from the corner of his eye.

Grinning, Wilson marched forward, instantly poking his head in the fridge and various cupboards.

Nothing was more soothing than cooking.

Thirty minutes later Wilson caught the sight of Cameron hesitantly making her way out of the bedroom, robe wrapped firmly around herself as she tilted her nose upward and sniffed the air, eyeing her home suspiciously, as if boobytraps could await behind every corner.

Then she saw him and jumped back a little, staring at him blankly, shocked.

"You're still here."

Not quite the greeting Wilson had been hoping for, but he could work with it.

"And I made breakfast." He nodded his head to the stove, where he had bacon frying merrily, waving his hand behind him to indicate the two plates already made up.

She blinked. "You made breakfast?"

Wilson nodded, removing the pan from the burner and carefully transferring the meat to the plates. "Waffles." He brought the plates forward, exiting the kitchen and setting them on the dining table. "I hope that it's all right that I went through your fridge and cupboards?"

Because if it hadn't been cooking, Wilson was certain he would have been forced to do something more destructive to abate his agitation.

She just looked down at the plates before slowly bring her gaze back to him. "No, no. It's fine."

Wilson let out an internal sigh of relief, "Good." He grinned. "Because getting rid of these hard made waffles would be a damn shame."

She laughed lightly, pulling the robe more firmly around herself and rubbing at her eyes, looking back up at him when she was through, as if he might have vanished.

Wilson simply raised an eyebrow.

She had the grace to blush. "I'm sorry." She retied her robe about herself. "I'm just amazed that you're still here, after I…"

She trailed off as the blush became darker.

"Helped me see God?" Wilson offered good-naturedly.

She chuckled, smirking. "I don't believe in God."

"Not important." He waved a dismissive hand. "After last night, I'm pretty certain that he believes in you."

Her cheeks were rather lovely shade of red, beet he thought, as she stared at her bare feet. "I just…"

She trailed off again, but Wilson said nothing, waiting.

Allison shifted, finally glancing up at him. "Why are you still here?

Wilson took a step away from the table that divided them. "Should I not be?" If she didn't want him here, he didn't want to stay. To force his company on her. "Would you like me to go?"

"No!" she said quickly, reaching out towards him before remembering herself, bringing her hand back to clutch around her waist and staring at him pleadingly. "No, don't go." She sighed, clutching at her elbows. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean…"

Allison sighed again, bringing a hand to her hair, swiping through the tangled strands in mild irritation before glancing back up again.

She took a deep breath and then exhaled.

And her words came out in a rush.

"I swore I wouldn't do this." She smiled ruefully at him. "I swore it. When you had your divorce, and Julie was pregnant, I wasn't going to allow myself to," a pause, "care for you."

She looked at Wilson almost fearfully.

He gave a reassuring nod, arms crossed lightly over his chest as he listened intently.

She continued. "Because you needed someone, were hurting so badly." She rubbed her forehead as she spoke faster. "And I was convinced that those were the only reasons I could possibly have for caring about you. And then when Clara," a split second halt, barely noticeable, "got worse, I wasn't going to let myself," she waved a hand in front of her, struggling to find words, "manufacture affection." She sighed. "To cling to someone." Another smile sent his way. "You."

Wilson found himself smiling back.

A smile that quickly faded when her expression contorted into a displeased grimace as she began to speak quickly once more. "I thought that whatever I felt, whatever fondness I thought I felt, wouldn't be real. That they would just be things I created to comfort myself, to feel less alone."

"Were they?" Wilson asked quickly, before she could move on.

She stopped, staring at him helplessly. "I don't know." She frowned, gazing at her fingers. "I don't think so." Her eyes locked with his. "Because, at some point, it wasn't just that you needed help, or that I needed comfort." She blushed. "I like you." A small smile given to her fingers, like a young girl with a crush. "A lot."

It was so utterly innocent, the words almost meaningless by adult standards, the standards he had no choice but to measure by.

But they still made Wilson shiver.

He gulped before giving a shaky, "Thanks," attempting a charming grin.

Cameron gave a reassuring smile, no doubt noticing his lack of composure. "I've always liked you." She grasped at her arms again, Wilson nearly seeing a sense of calm overtake her, as if that small admission made everything that followed easier. "And then you took Clara's case and I didn't just see you passing through diagnostics anymore. For the first time in years I talked to you." She shook her head gently in disbelief, giving a bitter laugh. "It took us years to have a conversation."

Wilson opened his mouth to interject.

Cameron held out a hand, preventing him from speaking before he started. "And not about House or the latest patient." Another tender tilt of the lips. "Just, typical, normal conversations, the kind that colleagues are supposed to have." She took another distracted swat at her hair. "And then, through those, I realized just how fond of you I was." She examined her fingernails once more, smiling. "You became my friend." She glanced up. "And then something... more, something that I thought I must have imagined."

Wilson braced himself. "Did you?"

"No."

He released a breath he hadn't known he had been holding, doing his best to hide the overjoyed shock he felt.

To say that, after the night before, without a moment of speculation or doubt, without a hint of reluctance in her tone.

Maybe she really had known whom she had wanted.

Wilson wanted to stomp the notion as soon as it came to him.

Good news never lasted. Remissions happened all of the time, but that didn't mean the disease was gone. Didn't mean that it wasn't waiting, just beneath the surface.

But some irrational bit of hope that had imbedded itself within him, some idiotically sentimental piece of him that House constantly pointed out as the oncologist's greatest point of weakness, wouldn't allow it.

"I just wanted to believe I did, because I thought it would have made things easier." She snorted. "Even though it really made things that much worse."

She frowned. "But it doesn't excuse what happened." She looked up at him, shaking her head in confusion. "I can't believe you're still here, after I..." She sighed, giving him an earnest, apologetic stare. "I shouldn't have done this to you, put you in this situation."

James felt it best to chime in quickly. "May I point out that there has been absolutely nothing about this situation that I've fond at all displeasing" He tilted a brow suggestively.

Allison grinned before firmly shaking her head. "But you didn't want this and I-"

Again, speed was key.

"Yes I did."

She frowned. "What?"

He took a small step forward. "I did, have, wanted this for months."

A blink. "But you didn't say-"

"There wasn't exactly an appropriate moment to woo you." He grinned ruefully."

She let out a small laugh. "You, James Wilson? Waiting for a suitable time to flirt?" She came closer, grinning. "Why would you do that now, with me?"

James paused for an instant, uncertain.

But it would be far better, to have her hear it now rather than later.

"House."

"Oh." Cameron retraced her steps, reestablishing distance between them.

It was only a few feet.

But it felt like miles. Like the span of the Atlantic Ocean had somehow wedged its way between them.

"Things have," a momentary pause, "changed."

Wilson retreated as well, rubbing his neck with his hand. "Yeah."

Both doctors examined Cameron's tan carpet with interest, trying to ignore the elephant in the room, the one glaring glitch in what they had done, a meaningful discussion suddenly morphed into an uncomfortable silence.

House had that effect on people.

At last, Cameron let out a loud sigh. "I'm so sorry, James." She talked to her toes, too ashamed to meet his gaze. "I never meant to do this to you. To guilt you into being here, to make you stay."

She glanced up, giving a pained smile. "To force you to make breakfast."

He returned the grin.

"I just..." She clutched at her elbows. "I've been so tired, and you, you've been so kind, have given me so much already." Her voice lowered, almost to the point where he couldn't hear her. "Given things that you shouldn't have felt pressured to." She looked up at him, eyes overly bright. "I'm so sorry." She took another step back, withdrawing into the hallway, turning away from him. "Please, feel free to leave."

Wilson knew he should let her go. Knew that she deserved better than him, knew that House still had fleeting chance at happiness, however small, with this woman.

But he also knew that she needed someone, had needed him, at some point. Knew that if he left her now there would be no coming back. No more talks, lunches.

No more of her.

And he knew that he was addicted. He couldn't bear quitting her completely. Not after that one taste.

Before he completely knew what he was doing James asked, "Do you think last night was a mistake?"

Allison's movements stopped suddenly, her frame becoming stock still in the hall.

He took a step towards her. "Do you regret it?"

There was a long pause before she slowly, tentatively, turned to face him.

"I should." Her eyes were nearly overflowing, pools forming at their corners. "I used you, hurt you."

Wilson restrained himself from reaching out to her, from comforting her. He didn't dare. Not yet.

"But do you?"

She looked down at the floor, arms wrapping more firmly about herself.

"Allison." James cautiously came closer to her. "I don't think it was a mistake."

And it was only in that moment, when he had said the words aloud, felt them against his tongue and lips, that he believed them.

"The timing was, admittedly, bad." He gave a small wince. Very bad. "But I don't regret the fact that it happened."

Another small step closer as he heard her sniffing.

"Do you?"

"No." She shook her head adamantly, bringing her gaze to his. "No I don't." And it was the firm determination in which she said it, the defiant arch of her neck, the challenging stare of her watery eyes more than the words themselves that made him believe her.

James couldn't stop himself from smiling, meeting her eyes with his. "Allison, if you don't want me here, I'll walk out of this apartment right now."

Although the thought of it alone made him miserable.

"But if you want me to stay," another step forward, "here," an unconscious grin, "with you," he was close enough to touch her now, although he refrained through sheer force of will, "we can relax a bit and eat some waffles."

Allison let out a giggle, wiping at her eyes with the arm of her robe. "Bribing me with food, I see."

He smiled. "I need all of the help I can get." He hardened his expression, staring at her seriously. "Would you like me to leave?"

"No." She gave her head a firm shake, sniffing. "Please stay."

She looked up at him, eyes wide and helpless, begging him.

And suddenly the apartment didn't seem so small. With her standing there, in her robe, crying in her bare feet, suffering from the loss of a woman she had loved so dearly. If left alone, James had no doubt that the room could engulf her completely.

She reached forward, weakly grabbing the sleeve of his white button-down shirt from the day before. "Please, please stay."

"Okay." Finally he allowed himself to wrap his arms around her, feeling her forehead rest against his shoulder as she cried softly. "Hush, okay." He rubbed his hand along her back, attempting to calm her as he made soothing noises, being certain not to frighten her.

After a time, when her whimpers had ceased, he gently pulled her away, just enough to look at her straight in the eye. "I'm not going anywhere, not until you really want me to, all right?"

Allison gave a nod, a small smile on her face as she wiped at her eyes again, sniffing.

"Okay." Wilson grinned, guiding her to the kitchen table. "Let's get the syrup out and attack those waffles, shall we?"

---

It was with a great deal of reluctance and internal annoyance that Foreman acknowledged that he had changed. That he had needed to change.

It wasn't a large alteration, nothing readily apparent to the casual observer. It was only through one fact that even Eric himself was aware of the transformation.

Eric, it seemed, no longer hated House.

Oh, he was still infuriated by the man. Still bothered, aggravated and exasperated by his boss. But it lacked something of the fire that it had before. Some of the raw, unquestioning loathing that had sustained the antipathy for so long.

Of course, this hardly meant that Foreman liked House. Far from it. Outside of work, nothing save for a substantial raise, promotion or another significant bribe would get Foreman spend a spare instant with the diagnostician.

No, Foreman didn't like House.

He simply couldn't bring himself hate him any more.

Upon this startling, and rather frightening, recognition, Foreman instantly began to question why this change had occurred.

Every effect had a cause.

Nothing about House had changed. He still ignored the rules. Still gave few people respect and Eric, most definitely, was not among the number to receive it. He was still mean, caustic and cruel, still had no appreciation for the position he held. Still treated his patients with scorn most saved only for convicted criminals and still found satisfaction in his job by being right rather than by curing the sick. He still liked power and still liked to prove he had it by gleefully pulling the strings of his underlings just to watch them dance.

No, House hadn't changed.

But Eric's perception of him had.

Ultimately, House did good things. He did his job and he did it well, even if the means he used to do so were often twisted, contrived, manipulative and, more often than not, completely illegal. Whether as a side-effect or as an intentional aim, patients were cured due to his inability to leave the puzzle alone, his driving need to solve all mysteries he could, consequences be damned.

And Foreman grudgingly admitted that he could learn something from that dedication.

He was forced to confess that he had come to admire House.

However reluctantly, however minutely, Foreman had begun to respect the man not just as a doctor, but also as a person.

It had been nearly painful to admit, disgusting to contemplate. Foreman would never want to be like House, never even want to spend an excessive amount of time in House's company.

But he was a good man. Perhaps not moral, perhaps not always appropriate or noble, but always, in the end, doing what was best for his patients. Whether anyone else agreed with him or not.

And that, at least, Foreman could admire.

And once this change had been acknowledged, it was only a matter of time before Foreman was forced to admit the other startling changes in his personality. The odd and seemingly illogical things he had been doing without reason, driven by some long buried impulse that now demanded to be acted upon.

Doctors, as a rule, didn't associate with patients outside of the hospital, much less the families of other physician's patients. It wasn't smart, wasn't professional. Gave a doctor an air of sentimentality that, while often endearing, was not viewed kindly by high placed hospital administrators.

And that had always been Foreman's top priority.

More importantly, Foreman, as a person, didn't associate with children for longer than was absolutely necessary. He liked them well enough, but had absolutely no patience for their bumbling ways. A child, while harmless and possessing a certain innocence that would be appealing to anyone who had experienced as many of the hard realities of life as Foreman, was nonetheless annoying. The neurologist didn't have the time required to remain in the company of a child, wasn't fond of indulging their curiosity or listening to their adolescent musings on life.

And yet, for the months after Matt had run into diagnostics crying, Foreman found himself increasingly in the boy's company.

What was especially peculiar was that he didn't mind it much.

Yes, it was very unfortunate what had happened to his mother, and Foreman sincerely felt badly for the family. But, typically, this would not have encouraged any continued association with the boy. Foreman wasn't his father, wasn't his uncle. Didn't possess any strong, unavoidable and unbreakable bond with the boy. This was a family tragedy in a family that Doctor Eric Foreman was not particularly inclined to become involved in.

But as Clara got worse, as Mark slowly began to come undone at the seams, as Sammy continued to ignore the situation entirely and Cameron worked diligently on taking care of all of the matters no one else had time for, Matt was left alone. And when Matt was alone he sought out Foreman.

Eric wasn't sure why. He didn't know what message he had initially given that made the child believe that he was an ideal person to turn to during the time of strife, that Foreman would have any words of comfort or support to offer.

But then, Matt hadn't had too many options by that point.

So, he had come to Foreman one evening while the doctor was in the lab, and after sitting silently for a few moments, had quickly spilled his soul, worries and tears.

Foreman, to put it bluntly, had been unprepared.

But, after a few minutes of shocked silence, he had promptly acted in the way he knew a good person should have, offering the boy what reassurances he could, however hollow. Providing as many distractions he was able to concoct for him, which were surprisingly varied, for a child as curious and intelligent as Matt.

It might not have been much, but it had seemed to help, and Foreman was, amazingly, pleased by this. It felt nice, good, to spend time with the boy. To aid him in whatever way he could, despite the fact that Foreman had no obligation or overriding incentive to do so.

It was only now, months later, upon the realization that he loathed House a little less, that Foreman became aware of why spending that time with Matt, by assisting him in whatever way he could, had felt so satisfying.

For the first time Foreman recognized that throughout the past fifteen years of his life, he had been attempting to be a good doctor first rather than a good person. And that now, because of Matt and House, his agenda had been altered.

And Foreman, although he'd never show it, was petrified of that change.

He couldn't afford to lose sight of what he had been working towards for the past two decades. Couldn't let himself forget what was at stake, not again. He had already turned down the Head of Neurology position out of a ridiculous sense of morality and a deluded notion that dedication correlated to success. When and if such an opportunity came up again, he couldn't allow himself to let the chance pass him by.

Good people were the ones who got trampled. They were the ones who got left behind in the dust of all of those who were intelligent enough to realize the cost of too much humanity.

Good people finished last.

Good people lost.

And Foreman had never been good at losing.

But his panic wasn't complete.

He knew that, if needed, he could change back. If he wanted to, he could adjust his priorities, set them straight, continue on as he had up until four months ago.

The catch was, if he did that, he wouldn't be able to fool himself anymore. Couldn't pretend to have the ethical high ground any longer, couldn't claim that he had always done the right thing. Because he would know better.

And without the self-delusion, Foreman wasn't sure the act, the success and acclaim, was worth the moral, human, weight of his decisions.

This was a problem that Foreman had debated since Clara's funeral, and which he was still pondering two weeks later.

Currently, he was in the lab, Matt at his elbow, both with facemasks in place, as he carefully examined piece of their patient's liver.

Apparently, Will had taken Matt away from the house to visit Cameron for lunch. And also to give Mark, who had been under constant surveillance during the past month, some time alone to grieve privately.

Every man deserved the right to fall apart without making a spectacle of himself in front of his son.

"Why are we looking at his liver?" Matt's voice was quieter, softer, than before, the wise but sad tone adopted by those who have learned too much of reality far too fast.

But it was still almost painfully curious.

Foreman grinned at the thought as he adjusted the specs.

Some things, thankfully, didn't change, despite all of the forces working against them.

"We want to see if he has an infection."

He almost felt Matt as he went on tiptoe, trying to see over the doctor's shoulder. "Does he?"

"Nope." Foreman pulled away from the microscope, standing up and gesturing to the chair he had just vacated. "Take a look."

Matt eagerly went into the chair and looked through the microscope, an expression of pure joy on his face as he took in the sight of rotting liver cells.

"Is it supposed to be brown like that?"

Foreman smiled. "No."

Matt was a good kid. A smart kid. Probably too smart for his own good. Smart enough to get through this, with or without Foreman's support.

But Foreman was running out of motivation to allow the kid to suffer without him.

"You see the odd shape of the cells? How they're sort of squished?"

Matt nodded.

"Well-"

"Matt?"

Doctor and child alike looked up and behind them.

"Hey, Uncle Will."

Will grinned from his position just inside the door, returned from flirting with the nurses on-call, giving Foreman a curt nod.

Foreman returned the gesture, attempting not to blink repeatedly at the overly bright pink mass of hair on top of the man's head.

There were some things, such as the dying of hair to particularly offensive colors, that Foreman would never understand.

The younger man cocked his head, jerking it towards the elevators. "Go up and tell Al to get ready for lunch, okay Squirt?"

Matt inclined his head, hopping down from the chair. "'Kay." He paused before heading for the door. "Doctor Foreman?"

Foreman raised a brow in question.

"Can I still come and visit, if Aunt Al brings me over some time?" Matt scratched the back of his head, looking uncomfortable in the lab for the first time since the neurologist had met him.

Foreman knew he shouldn't say yes. Knew that it would just encourage foolish sentimental behavior, the kind that brought a type of satisfied accomplishment that medical procedures had never given him.

And as much as he knew he shouldn't say yes, he did anyway.

"Sure, Matt." He let out a small, unnoticeable, sigh, resigned to the fact that he was completely incapable of regretting the decision.

Because he liked the kid.

And because he had been finding more and more, throughout the past months, that success was what you made it.

Maybe he needed to rethink his own definition.

Matt's smile was almost blinding in the dim light of the lab. "Thanks, Doctor Foreman." He gave a small jump before heading out the door.

Will smirked, giving Matt's hair a small ruffle before gently pushing him out of the lab. "Go on, kid."

Matt did, all but bounding out of the lab.

Foreman gave his head a small shake, hiding his own grin as he observed the piece of liver once more.

There was a moment of silence in which Foreman assumed that had Will left, only to abruptly ended moments later by the sound of the man's voice.

"I've seen what you've been doing for him."

Foreman glanced up, seeing Will's appraising look and curious expression.

The neurologist shrugged, turning back to the liver sample. "It's nothing."

Will mimicked the gesture, coming closer. "Maybe not to you, but it's been the world to him."

Foreman frowned, looking at the man once more, surprised.

The younger man gave another careless toss of his shoulder. "His dad's not been quite the ideal role model as of late, and Lord knows a kid needs one at a time like this."

Foreman nodded, jotting down a note in the patient's chart, listening intently. "Will he be okay?"

"Mark? Oh, yeah." He tugged on one of the rings in his ear, nodding. "Give him a few more days and he'll snap out of it." A crooked grin. "Too good of a father to allow himself to wallow too much longer."

The doctor gave another nod, figuring as much from his brief associations with the man. "And everyone else in the family? They're all right?"

There was a pause, Will crossing his hands in front of his chest, looking Foreman in the eye. "They're getting there."

"And you?"

A bitter grin. "Getting there."

Foreman stared at the man seriously, noting the dark circles under his eyes and the hollows in his cheeks.

It can take a lot out of a person, watching someone die.

Foreman spoke without thought. "If you ever need anything, any help, feel free to ask."

He frowned, startled by his own offer.

Will was eyeing him with interest. "Thanks." He walked further into the lab. "That's awfully generous of you." He leaned against a counter. "A doctor's time is valuable."

Foreman sighed, an odd mixture of self-resentment and pride coursing through him. "Matt's a good kid and I've worked with Allison a long time." He rubbed his forehead, quieting his voice. "If there's anything I can do to help, I should."

Because it was the right thing to do. And he suddenly found himself all about doing the right thing.

Will tilted his head slightly. "How long have you worked with Al?"

Foreman looked up, almost surprised that the man was still in the lab. "About two and a half years, ever since I've been at Plainsboro."

Will gave a little nod. "Do you know everyone in the hospital well?"

"No, not especially." He stared at the microscope. "I've been very focused on my career."

"What do you know about Wilson?"

"Wilson?" Foreman frowned. "Your sister's doctor?"

Will nodded.

"He's decent enough. Great doctor, no grand lapses in morality, excellent patient care." Foreman quickly made a mental list of all of Wilson's skills. The last thing the oncologist needed was to be sued. "He did everything he could for your sister." He paused, smiling ruefully. "Now if House had been her doctor-"

"I don't want to sue him." Will remarked blandly. "And I certainly trust House more than that man."

Foreman quirked an eyebrow. "House?"

Will gave a light shrug. "At least he's honest. Wilson's not. Neither is the Australian," he sighed, pulling on his earring again. "But Sammy can take care of herself." He gave himself a small shake, looking back up to the neurologist. "Right now, I'm interested in the oncologist."

"Well if you want hospital gossip I'm not the best person to talk to." Foreman shrugged. "As far as I know he's a good doctor with a personal life that's none of my business."

The younger man gave a nod, turning on his heel. "Okay. Thanks. Probably see you at a family dinner."

He was almost to the door when Foreman spoke, curious. "Will?"

The man looked back.

"Why do you care?"

There was a displeased smirk across Will's face. "Because he's sleeping with my sister." He opened the door, poised to leave. "And I don't like it."

With that he was out of the lab, Foreman left staring at the spot the man had formerly occupied.

Wilson and Cameron?

Foreman gave his head a firm shake before bolting out of his chair and following the trail Will had blazed out of the room.

This, he feared, could only lead to trouble.

"Will, wait."

The man stopped his progress toward the main lobby, raising an eyebrow at Foreman behind him.

"You can't know that."

Will snorted, waiting until Foreman had caught up to him before striding forward once more. "Trust me, I know."

Foreman lowered his voice, tone laced with disbelief. "When your sister's had sex?" He paused, hesitantly adding, "How would you...?"

Will frowned before glancing at Foreman. "Ew." He sent the neurologist a disgusted look. "Dude." He visibly shivered. "That's sick." Will shook his head. "No, it's all body language. How people interact with each other, how it changes." He sent Foreman a significant glance. "I can tell."

"You can't be certain-"

Will quickly cut him off. "I am."

Foreman sighed. "Okay, fine. But is it really your business who Cameron sleeps with?"

"She's my sister."

"She's thirty-two," he pointed out quickly. "Don't you think she should be allowed to make her own decisions on this front?"

Will gave a snort. "Not when she has a history of lusting after inappropriate men who cause her nothing but pain."

"Wilson's not a bad guy." Foreman found it odd that he was suddenly petitioning for a man he barely knew, finding it suddenly important that Will knew about Wilson's positive traits.

He wasn't at all certain as to why.

Will smirked. "According to the nurses he's a cheater, manipulator and liar."

Foreman opened his mouth only to be stopped by a raised hand.

"Sure, he's a great doctor and I have no doubt that he did all he could for Clara, but that doesn't make him any less of an asshole when it comes to women." They had reached the elevators, Will pressing impatiently on the up button. "And I'm not planning on letting Al get hurt again." He frowned, tugging on his ring again. "Not now."

Foreman let out a sigh, staring at the man intently. "Will, I know you want to protect her, but you can't. You shouldn't. Not from something like this."

He paused, seeing the man's look of doubt.

"You don't even know Wilson, you have no idea how he treats her, whether or not his reputation is deserved."

Will still looked unimpressed.

"What if he makes her happy?"

Will sighed. "Listen, Foreman." He clapped the doctor on the shoulder. "I know something about cheaters, and I know that they don't change." He gave Foreman a charming smile. "I'm not trying to make my sister miserable, far from it. I just want to warn her, make sure she understands just what she's getting herself into." The elevator dinged open and Will stepped in. "That's all."

The neurologist quickly stopped the sliding doors from closing. "She'll resent you for it."

Foreman internally wondered what aspect of personality he could possibly appeal to in order to stave off Will's attempts. Because Foreman, oblivious as he was to the lives of those around him, had been watching Cameron, covertly, during the past weeks. Had seen that although she was sad, she wasn't miserable, wasn't broken by grief.

And Wilson had, without question, been a large part of that. The way he made her smile when they spoke, they way her mood would instantly lighten if he came into diagnostics, how she left for lunch each day with a joy certainly not warranted by the cafeteria's menu.

He was making her happy. And even if it wasn't smart, even if it wasn't entirely healthy, it was her choice.

"You can't always protect people." Foreman said at last. "Especially if they don't want it."

Will frowned. "Just because someone doesn't want something, doesn't mean that they don't need it."

The doctor sighed, realizing that the man's mind had already been made up. "Fine, fine. Talk to her." He stared at Will. "But not now. Not yet. Give it some time, look at Wilson yourself." He shrugged. "Maybe he's not the asshole you think he is."

Will was sending him an intrigued glance, seemingly fascinated by the fever with which the neurologist lobbied his cause. "Okay, Foreman. I'll wait."

Foreman let out a sigh of relief, giving a curt nod before turning and heading back to the lab, glad, at least, that he had extended Cameron's happiness a bit.

"Hey, Foreman."

Foreman looked back, Will holding the door open with his arm.

"Why do you care so much about my talking to her?"

He gave a humorless grin. "I don't want Cameron to get hurt either."

---

A month had passed since the funeral, and Chase was of the firm belief that all of his obligations had been fulfilled.

It was a Saturday night and they were at her apartment, comfortably seated in her large couch and watching the only movie that was halfway decent and happened to be on TV. Sammy was lying against his chest as he leaned back into the corner of the sofa, their legs tangling at the other end as her head rose and fell with his every breath.

He didn't want to admit that he could stay this way for hours, forever if need be, and be perfectly content.

It was a realization like that had consequences that Chase had no desire to contemplate. Implied things, feelings, that he was determined not to have.

Chase didn't think many people understood the worth of apathy. The blessed freedom and security it gave those who felt it. When you didn't care about people who were hurt, things that were lost or emotions that were involved, you were free to do anything you wished without regret. You were able to sustain any abandonment, any blow, without any feeling whatsoever.

Chase had yet to master the ability entirely; small vestiges of bothersome emotions still clung to him, still pulled scraps of feeling from him that were so unwelcome they almost hurt as they were taken.

And Sammy seemed to inspire such sentiments with an intensity Chase had been too afraid to feel, unwilling to feel, in years. Decades.

Because more than any other lesson that Chase had ever learned, he knew that caring hurt. People took that caring and used it against you, trapped you with it, abused it and left you behind.

Sammy, he was certain, would be no exception. Not because she was a bad person, or because she particularly wanted to cause him harm. It was because he liked her too much.

And people like that, the ones you valued too highly, thought too well of, admired too much.

They were the ones who hurt you the most when they disappointed you.

Given these facts, Chase thought that it was perfectly reasonable that he should leave. Was even annoyed that he hadn't left sooner, some twisted sense of obligation and guilt making him stick around as long as he had. A woman he barley knew asked him to stay and he did, subjecting himself to an emotional whirlwind that he wouldn't have been a part of under any normal set of circumstances.

But Clara had been dying and, using that, had managed to manipulate him masterfully.

How could he deny a dying woman her last request? How could he say no, when she had placed so much trust in him, such absolute faith? It was wrong to do that to a person. To give them a responsibility they had no choice but to accept, no option but to comply with demands that they should have no obligation to fulfill.

Because, really, who could, would, say no to a dying woman?

Chase hadn't signed up for this. He hadn't wanted to help clean a house that wasn't his, wash dishes or store leftover food. Hadn't wanted to follow a woman around for three months, hadn't wanted to keep a mourning family company, to stay sober while everyone around him was deliriously wallowing in grief.

He hadn't wanted to hold her. To wipe her tears and reassure her as she cried. To whisper reassurances about the afterlife and God's love into her ear in the early hours of morning, stroking her back as she slowly fell asleep.

He hadn't wanted any of it. Didn't need any of it.

Even if every grateful smile, loaded glance and kind word she gave him made him question this conviction.

And that doubt was perilous.

Was deceiving, nearly convinced him that she could make him happy. Because if he could somehow find satisfaction in sharing her every moment of pain and suffering, in taking her disappointments into his heart and cherishing them just as greatly as he did her smiles, then what was to stop him from being happy with every aspect of her? And not the momentary joy, the fleeting and false kind that he had experienced so many times before, that he had felt slip through his fingers.

That doubt made him think that he might not, this time, screw things up. That it could work, that it could last.

Soon he would start to cling to these desperate illusions, these pretty fantasies that he knew better than to believe. And Chase couldn't have that.

For the first time in a very long time, Chase was happy. And happy was dangerous.

It made him unsafe, deluded, foolish.

And Chase was so tired of playing the fool.

So he decided it was time for the fantasy to end.

"This isn't working."

He ignored the internal twinge that almost made him flinch when he said the words, the ceaseless doubt that echoed through his head.

He would not be tricked again.

Sammy tensed, gently pushing against his chest as she sat up and frowned at him. "What?"

Chase gulped, willing himself not to feel her hand through his shirt, see her eyes in the dim light, trace the eyebrow quirked up in question with the traitorous fingers that ached to glide across the fine hairs.

"Us. We're not working."

She moved her hand, sitting up fully and flicking on a lamp, creating distance between them.

Chase sat up as well, pointedly not looking at her, instead staring at his shoes with interest. It wasn't that he didn't want to have to see the disappointment on her face, the betrayal. It was just that his shoes could have some vital insight to share on how to deal with this unfortunate situation.

Really.

"Not working?" Sammy straightened, folding her hands in her lap, staring at him seriously as her brow furrowed. "How are we not working?"

She was an incredibly attractive woman. There was no denying that. It wasn't a classic beauty, not one that could be instantly identified, remarked upon and criticized, because no single feature made her extraordinary. It was all of it. Her lips (that were rather thin), her legs (which were almost too thick), her hands (rough, artist's hands, the feature he loved most). All of these small things, these many imperfections, made her, to Chase, almost unbearably stunning.

But there were plenty of beautiful women in the world. Ones who came without strings.

"A lot of reasons."

Sammy frowned again, standing and staring down at him, her look cold and calculating. "So do you want to change any of these things, or would it be better just to mention that they exist and then ignore them?"

He looked down to the shoes again, a last ditch effort to glean some helpful advice from the unresponsive objects, before glancing up again.

"I don't think these are things that can be fixed."

"I see." Her expression became carefully blank. "Why?"

Chase hated seeing her like that. Her beautiful, animated features muted down, intentionally dulled in an attempt to protect herself. It made sense for her to do so. At its most astonishing, Sammy's face could convey every emotion she ever felt in a manner which shamed the English language, in a way that made words obsolete.

It was breathtaking.

But now that wonderful gift became a liability, a weakness that could be used against her. And so she went blank, emotionless save for the way she flicked her hair behind her ear.

Chase almost believed that he felt an immense regret, for making her adopt that blank expression with him

Almost.

After all, she meant nothing to him.

Nothing at all.

"It's not impor-"

"Of course it's important. If it wasn't then we wouldn't be having this conversation, would we?" She let out a small sigh, the façade slipping slightly as she gave him a sad, pained glance, biting her lip. "Rob, if you're going to break up with me at least have the decency to tell me why."

Chase took in a deep breath, knowing that once the words had been said, once they left his lips, there would be no taking them back.

"I'm tired." He ran a hand through his hair. "Tired of helping you pick up after your messes, your problems. I'm sick of caring more about your troubles than my own." He sent her a sardonic glance. " I never wanted this, you know. Never wanted whatever you've made us into."

"Made us into?"

Chase stood up as well, gesturing wildly as his voice rose. "It was just supposed to be a good time, Sammy!" A bitter laugh. "That's it. Just two young people doing what young people do for a week or two, and that would be that."

He was yelling now, angry with her, with himself. Knowing that the anger gave him away.

Apathy was supposed to negate anger.

He threw up his hands. "But you weren't satisfied, couldn't just keep it neat, orderly and simple. A no-strings-attached relationship that would have kept us both pleasantly content." He sighed, rubbing at his hair again, sending her an accusing look. "No, you made it _complicated_." He said the word as if it made his throat burn.

Sammy remained quiet, expression still bland, frustrating Chase.

She only had herself to blame. He had never wanted this, never meant to be anything more to her.

But he had never wished to hurt her either.

Chase sighed, tone wearily resigned. "I wasn't supposed to meet your family." Or like them. "Wasn't supposed to spend weeks at a time in your apartment." To have more of his clothes in her closet than his. "To know the name of your first pet." It was Graham, a turtle. "I didn't agree to do any of these things."

Sammy stared at him levelly. "I never asked you to."

His temper came back. "Yes you did!" He let out a large breath of air, almost a laugh. "You have to know you did."

Expression came back to her, a mildly confused furrow between her brows, a slight tilt of her head.

And it was such a relief to see her again, not some lifeless mask, that he found himself taking a step towards her without realizing it. "Every time you looked at me I could feel it. Wanting more, for me to get closer, more attached." He shook his head in disbelief, letting out a huff of air. "And I did." A chuckle. "Like a fool I followed every unspoken request you gave me."

With a start he noticed the renewed proximity between them, quickly stepping away.

None of that. Not now.

"But now I'm done." He looked up at her, shrugging. "I've given you everything that I know how to give and it's not enough."

And it wasn't. Not for Sammy and certainly not for Chase. He wouldn't have her now just to lose her later.

It wasn't enough.

He shook his head, staring at her again. "I did everything you," she, Clara, "asked. Everything. But I've got nothing else."

She opened her mouth, reaching out a hand as if to touch him. "Rob-"

He backed away, towards the door. "It's over, Sammy." He snatched his jacket off of the edge of the couch, making his way across the room as quickly as possible.

He had a feeling that if she touched him, he wouldn't be able to leave.

Soon he was at the door, opening it. "It's been fun, but that's all it was."

He glanced behind him, Sammy giving him the look of one overcome with shock, as if the entire world had rotated on its axis without warning.

"All it was supposed to be."

He closed the door and walked out of the apartment building, trying to erase her stricken image from his mind as he made his way to his car.

She meant nothing to him.

Nothing at all.

---

After years of a mild sense of fulfillment, of detached joy and momentary contentment, Allison was finally happy.

It was a cruel irony that this bliss came at the worst possible time.

Of course it would have made Clara smile, had she been there. She would have pointed out, with a knowing smirk, how it was just like Al to get something right when she would be least able to appreciate it. And then she would have laughed, told everyone that she had known that it was bound to happen from the start, and then revealed all of the strings she had cleverly pulled to bring them together, the matchmaker that she was.

But Clara wasn't there, and the pain her absence caused was almost physical in its intensity.

It shouldn't have. Cameron had been through this ordeal before and had managed it with an iota of grace, with a hint of composure and dignity. She hadn't been forced to disappear for hours at a time, just to regain herself. Hadn't been fazed by common occurrences that reminded her of the departed. Hadn't found herself uncontrollably overwhelmed by grief throughout the course of her day.

Back then she hadn't felt anything. She had known there was pain, buried somewhere deep, carefully controlled through her classes, through work and her final exams. But she never felt it. Not until she was back home, at their apartment, alone. Not until she was surrounded by the memories of him and had no choice but to succumb to the sadness that she had kept at bay for everyone else's sake.

Now she felt everything. The pain was raw, fresh, undiluted and ugly. It sapped her energy and strength, prevented her functioning at the level of normalcy she expected from herself, and let people see how she wasn't okay, despite her attempts to appear to be.

James didn't mind the shift in her temperament, reading her moods expertly, knowing when to leave and when to stay. When to give her the space she needed and when to keep close at hand, ready to offer a shoulder, tissue or joke as needed. And he reminded her, when her body shook with tremors and her eyes were red from crying, that it was better to let the grief out rather than to allow it to fester. Better to mourn properly now, the way Clara deserved, than to dismiss the hurt and never acknowledge it.

It hurt because Allison had loved her so much.

And love shouldn't be ignored or forgotten.

He hadn't tried to make her remain at home longer than she wished, unlike her other colleagues at the hospital. Cuddy had offered the immunologist as much time off as she felt she needed to rest and recuperate from the loss. But Allison couldn't stand to be alone with her thoughts for so long, knowing the difference between grieving in a healthy manner and sinking into a depression. Jim seemed to understand this, and had simply nodded his head agreeably when she said she would be returning to Plainsboro, just a week after the funeral.

And if he passed by Diagnostics more than usual, or took an interest in more of their cases than an oncologist had any right to, everyone assumed that it was to look after House.

They had decided early on not to make public the changes in their relationship. The current circumstances weren't ideal for that grand unveiling, and neither doctor, Allison particularly, had the energy that would, undoubtedly, be needed to mollify the hospital gossip mill.

House knew. She could tell by how he looked away when she and Jim stood close together, in the way he didn't ask questions when she arrived late to work, how he pointedly didn't give any snide comments regarding the subject, but would instead only smirk smugly when he saw them at lunch.

Why he wasn't reverting back to his juvenile habits and telling everything with a pulse about the affair taking place right under his nose, however, was something Allison couldn't explain.

And so, due to the sudden uncharacteristic benevolence of her boss, Allison and Jimmy remained discreet, continuing to eat lunch together, to exchange friendly greetings and talk when they happened to cross paths. But they always made sure to arrive at different times each morning, to use different cars even though they often ended up at the same place.

Even after only one visit to his apartment, months earlier, Allison quickly came to the conclusion that Jim's home was big, empty and cold. Insisting that such an environment was damaging to a person's psyche, she asked that he sleep on her couch (or in her bed) instead of alone in his tomb of a home, happily keeping him with her most nights rather than permitting him to return to his desolate place of residence.

And even though they both knew that she asked because she didn't want to be alone, and that he stayed because he was worried about her, they continued to blame his apartment. Placing responsibility for their continued association on an inanimate structure had the added benefit of allowing Allison to ignore how deeply she cared for James.

It was still a little frightening, how intensely she had allowed herself to grow fond of him without realizing it. How expertly she hid her affection under her denial, her fierce need to keep their relationship friendly, simple.

Simple was good because simple was easy.

But this, this felt simple too. Simple and better.

It turned out that Jim needed remarkably little from Allison. That what he took he returned, tenfold, back to her in the form of an unconditional concern and support.

That caring for him took next to no effort at all.

And although Allison couldn't imagine this fondness, this connection, as being anything but genuine, the fear that she was unconsciously using him was still there. The fear that her affection for him was just a side effect of grief.

Allison had done her best to dismiss these fears, keeping in mind what Clara had told her, sagely, a month before she died.

Stop being afraid, stay instead of leave, open your eyes and see it.

Cryptic, but Clara would hate to be anything but. Obvious, after all, was boring.

In any case, _it, _whatever it might have been, was nice.

Whenever she was with James, Allison felt the world melt around her. The anxiety, sorrow and stress that seemed to swarm around her didn't go away, didn't disappear or magically disintegrate with his presence, but they did fade. Became manageable, small details that she suddenly believed would be incapable of overcoming her, so long as he was there.

And he made her happy. Truly happy.

He could make her laugh without trying, all of his awkward tendencies, flirtatious ways and dry humor suddenly becoming vital aspects of her day, without which she felt incomplete.

With just one look or smile he managed to warm her insides, making her feel a sense of rightness that she had never before experienced.

When she touched him, put her hand in his or wrapped her arms around his waist, her skin felt as if it belonged attached to his. It was startling to think she had gone so long without knowing the contours of his fine hands, without imprinting the texture of his skin on her memory, without leaning her ear against his neck to hear his blood rush through his veins as he placed his chin gently on her hair.

After James, she knew that touching anyone else would feel alien.

Despite the sad circumstances, the secrecy and the nearly crippling self-doubt that she was determined to hide, from both James and herself, she was happy.

It was a month after Clara's funeral, and she was happy.

And that was more than Allison had dared to hope for.

These were her distracted thoughts as she looked over the vitals of Diagnostic's current patient, a forty-year-old woman currently in a coma. Her condition was stable, but Cameron had no doubt that it would only be a matter of time before she seized once again, hence the need for constant monitoring.

She was adjusting the woman's IV drip when the glass door quickly slid open.

"Al, we need to talk."

Allison turned, a frown on her lips until she caught a glimpse of magenta. Smirking, and internally congratulating herself on keeping Matt from dyeing his hair a lime green, she looked back at the patient, focused once more.

"Do we?" she said with amusement, finishing with the IV and returning her attention to Will. "Now?" She gestured to the woman. "Can't it wait?"

Will gave his head a firm shake, stepping further into the room. "No, it can't. I caught an early flight." He shrugged. "Plane's leaving in an hour."

Allison furrowed her brow.

Will tugged on an earring, sending her a mildly guilty look. "You know how antsy I get, Al."

She nodded, surprised her brother had remained in New Jersey as long as he had.

Will did not, as a rule, like being confined or bound to any person or place longer than was absolutely necessarily, making and breaking attachments the way most people broke twigs. The fact that he had stayed for such an extended time was a testament to the only exception to Will's rule- his family. Although he had no great fondness for people, Will protected his family with a possessive fierceness that was enough to intimidate most. It was only after years of Mark's sheer persistence, and Clara's blatant disregard for Will's grumbling, that the Samsons were reluctantly accepted into her brother's fold. After which point the young man grew a fondness for them, which quickly evolved into the same defensive tendencies.

"Mark's better, Matt's doing all right, Sammy's gotten the denial out of her system and you," he paused, staring at her intently, "you'll be okay in a few more weeks."

Allison rolled her eyes, walking to the end of the bed and snatching their patient's file. "Gee, thanks for the diagnosis Doctor Burroughs." She flipped the clipboard open. "I was worried there for a moment."

He grinned. "No problem. It's my job, after all." He gave his head a light shake. "Now stop distracting me. We've got to talk before I hit the road."

Allison clicked her pen, scribbling briefly to get ink out of the device. "Talk away."

"It's about that guy."

She quirked an eyebrow in question, still fiddling with the pen. "That guy?"

Will let out a sigh. "Wilson." He gave his ear one last tug before lowering his hand, crossing his arms over his chest. "It's about Wilson."

Allison allowed herself a moment of confusion as she pondered how Will had become aware of her relationship with Jim (because her brother certainly wouldn't care about him otherwise), before giving her head a light shake.

Will (as he had proved time and time again throughout his youth, when his sisters would bring home groups of friends and he could instantly tell who was interested in whom, who had been a part of massive arguments and who was up to something secretive), could be a very perceptive boy when he so chose.

Annoyed but resigned to the fact, Allison couldn't stop herself from letting out a bark of laughter before smiling in triumph as the pen began to work properly. "Not this act again, Will."

Will frowned. "Al-"

"The protective brother routine?" she interrupted quickly, placing the patient's file back at the foot of the bed and walking out of the room, Will on her heels. "You did this in high school," she sent him an annoyed glance, "when you were twelve and I was sixteen, holding down a job and making you do your homework every night." She rolled her eyes. "In college, when I was thousands of miles away." She stopped walking abruptly, grinning at him. "Will, you did this with Mark before you got to know him."

He waved a dismissive arm. "This is different."

Allison sighed, beginning to stride away once more. "It's always different."

He grabbed her arm before she could leave. "I know guys like him, Al." He laughed bitterly. "Hell, I am a guy like him." He stared at her levelly, utterly serious. "He's despicable."

She frowned, trying to jerk away her arm, angry. "Will-"

He cut her off. "He may seem friendly enough, just an all-around good guy."

Allison scoffed, knowing that she wouldn't be able to get through to him (not when he was like this), and pulled her arm away from him, walking quickly down the hallway once more, attempting to escape.

She didn't want to hear it, didn't want to believe whatever it was that he wanted to say.

She was happy. She wanted to stay that way.

She walked faster, glad that the hallway was empty. The last thing she needed was to make a spectacle of herself.

"And then the instant he sees a vulnerable, weak and needy woman, he takes advantage of her the first chance he gets."

She glared behind her. "You don't know anything about him."

He grabbed her elbow, forcing her to stop once more, shaking her. "What do you think he's after, Al? After three marriages? After all of those affairs?"

Allison gaped, shocked to stillness. "How do you-"

Will shook his head dismissively. "I've talked to the nursing staff and some of the doctors on his floor." He smirked. "Walls talk."

She paused. She had managed to allow herself to forget Jimmy's unfortunate past with relationships.

Seeing that he had caught her attention, Will released her, speaking more quietly now, with less urgency. "Look at how spectacularly he has failed at committing to anything, Al. Anyone."

Allison was silent a moment, feeling young and foolish. "His job-"

Will interrupted. "His job isn't what I'm concerned about." He snorted. "He could be the best damn doctor in the world and I would give a flying rat's ass right now. It's you I'm worried about. He doesn't need anything from any woman except for a nice lay every now and then." A significant pause as he bent his head, locking his eyes with hers, forcing her to listen. "And that's all he wants from you."

She shook her head instantly. "No. No, he didn't want to-" She stopped herself, knowing that she was losing composure. She took a deep, calming, breath, attempting to become rational once more. The only way to win this argument, the only way she could possibly persuade him, was to remain rational.

She didn't acknowledge that she was trying to convince herself as well.

She met her brother's gaze. "I started this."

"Yeah, you started it," Will said, scorn apparent in every syllable. "But who do you think's going to finish it?"

Her stare went to the floor, uncertain.

Allison had spent so much time questioning her own motives that she had never thought to contemplate his.

And with a history as fraught with failed romances as James's, there was a lot to question.

Will sighed. "You know what, I lied."

Allison looked up, a confused expression on her face.

"He's worse than me." He tugged at his earring again. "Because he makes women believe that he wants something more out of them before tossing them out in the cold."

She remained silent, resisting the urge to pull her lab coat around herself more tightly.

James's motives were unknown, entirely his own, and might not have been as noble as Allison would have liked to believe they were. After all, he hadn't been able to keep a wife. Had cheated in the past, although how often and with whom Allison could only guess at. He did get bored with girlfriends and spouses, did have a tendency to offer his support a bit too quickly to women, people, in times of strife, devoting his time and affection elsewhere rather than where it was most expected.

How long would it take for him to become bored of her?

"Maybe I'm wrong."

Allison glanced up once more, Will still staring at her earnestly.

"Maybe he does have the capacity to have a meaningful relationship with another human being." He looked at her sadly. "But if he does, do you really think he's going to exercise it with you?"

He gave his ear another nervous rub before bringing a hand to her shoulder, trying to soften harsh words. "Al, you've been actively pursuing his best friend for the past three years, and you come with more baggage, neuroses and emotional issues than the average man would be capable of handling. Not even mentioning that this guy will have sex with anything with a pretty face and a pitiful gaze."

He shook her gently, forcing her to meet his stare once more. "He's using you."

She shook her head adamantly, wanting nothing more than to forget what he had said. What he was saying. "He's not." He couldn't be.

Another firm shake. "He is." He looked at her with remorse, expression serious. "Al, you know I wouldn't do this just to hurt you, especially not now."

And he wouldn't. Will never meant to hurt anybody. And when he did he always claimed it was for the best. That things were better that way.

Will let her go, backing away a step. "He'll be the perfect gentleman." He gave a sarcastic smile. "Kind, considerate, nice. And then someone better, needier, more appealing, will come along, and he won't be able to help himself, and he'll be kind, considerate and nice to her." He sent her a pained glance. "He'll be gone, and you'll be left alone."

No.

James wouldn't do that. He wouldn't. He couldn't. He cared for her too much to do that to her.

Didn't he?

She shook her head. "Will, you're being ridiculous."

"Am I?" A raised eyebrow. "What do you want from him, Al? What does he mean to you?" He shrugged. "Just a friend you like to fuck every now and then? A crush? Because those are fine." He stepped forward again. "But if you want something more out of him, something greater, then you better run now. Because you need him a lot more than he needs you, and nothing is keeping him from finding someone else."

Allison was silent, the new information, these desperately unwanted suspicions, becoming a nearly physical weight on her back, making her want to bend her spine to accommodate this crippling load.

She could have reservations about herself and cope with those insecurities with only a mild sense of discomfort. But she couldn't doubt James. Not without a painful toll.

Will must have read the discomfort on her face. He quickly walked forward and embraced her. "I love you, I do," he whispered to her. "I'm just tired of seeing you hurt." He released her, giving her a light kiss on the cheek before backing away. "Someone needs to help protect you from yourself."

And then he turned on his heel and headed down the hallway to the elevator.

Will had never been very good at goodbyes.

And had she been given more time, Allison had no doubt that she would have allowed his words to plague her for the rest of the day, to repeat in her head and take on new meanings, becoming even more devastating than they already were.

But at that instant her pager went off.

Her patient was seizing.

Pushing the conversation with her brother to the back of her mind, Cameron ran back down the hall, entering the room she had left mere minutes before and quickly asserting control over the situation, quickly sending the nurses to work as she rolled the patient onto her side.

Doctor Cameron was in complete control.

Allison was screaming.

The next days went by in a blur, Cameron devoting all of her attention to the case in Diagnostics, attempting to ignore what Will had said, to erase it from her mind. Will, although smart, was not capable of summing up the worth of a man in a matter of months. Especially true when one took into account his very skewed perceptions of people, further altered in this instance by his instant dislike for anyone who had ever taken an interest in either one of his siblings.

Yes. The most logical thing would be to forget the comments. To pretend that the interaction had never happened until her next phone call to the little twerp, when she would give him a piece of her mind.

That was what she wanted to do.

But she couldn't.

Doubts about James, about his intentions (to just screw around until he was bored with her, to make her feel better before promptly leaving), his motives for being with her (so he could help her and then move on to someone superior, someone more needing, more deserving of him), haunted her.

And the results of this haunting were readily apparent for the world to see. She became quiet, moody and irritable, rarely contributing to diagnoses or interacting with patients, pointedly avoiding companionship of any sort in favor of being alone to think. To worry over, stress about and scrutinize James's every action.

She knew it was ridiculous. Knew that this panic, inspired by nothing more than Will's misgivings, wasn't at all practical. That she was becoming the very type of woman she hated, overly suspicious and insecure, so busy doubting both her significant other and herself that she forgot the things that had brought them together.

And she still couldn't stop. Not immediately.

James seemed to sense her hostility and wisely kept away for several days, obviously confused by her sudden detachment but accepting it without question or comment.

Instead, one afternoon after a lunch in which Allison had been particularly unresponsive, he had gently pulled her aside before they had gone off to their respective departments, tugging her into an empty hallway before she could stride off.

She had looked around nervously in the hall, convinced that House would jump out from behind a corner and proceed to run, screaming the details of their relationship to anyone who might hear, through the hospital.

The paranoia had certainly begun to set in.

But whereas Allison had been panicked and nervous, James was calm and relaxed, holding her hand in one of his while sending her a reassuring smile. "Allison." He brought his free limb to the back of his neck and gave the skin a rub. "I don't know what's wrong, but I know that whatever it is, I'm not helping."

She had opened her mouth, ready to protest, but he didn't give her the opportunity, bringing the hand away from his neck and over her mouth.

He gave another comforting grin, lightly rubbing his thumb over her bottom lip.

They were frozen that way for a moment, just staring at one another in the deserted hallway, James gently silencing her and smiling.

Then he let out a small sigh, quickly kissing her cheek before releasing his hold on her hand and mouth, backing out of the small space. "Let me know when you'd like me back at your place."

With one last grin he was off, returning to his office or some patient's room.

Giving her the space they both knew she needed, even if neither of them knew exactly why.

He spent those nights in his own apartment, for which she was grateful. It gave her some time that was not completely occupied by thoughts of his impending betrayal, of all of the ways in which he would, ultimately, leave her. Of all the evidence that clearly pointed to his pity, not his caring, as the underlying emotion that bound him to her.

But, more importantly, With James away, even only twenty minutes away, she finally let herself remember why she was so fond of him. She recalled all of the positive attributes that gave testament to his character, the reasons why he would never betray her in the way Will insisted he would. James was too loyal, too honest. Too decent to deceive someone he cared about in such a horrid fashion. (And Allison knew that he held some amount of affection for her, some sense of attachment.)

And his absence allowed her some time to miss him.

After a week of taciturn detachment from family, friends and coworkers, and four nights without Jimmy, Allison asked that he come back home, her home, that is, during lunch.

And he had smiled his smile (the one that made her knees weak, that she had missed so very much in merely days), and said he'd see her there, gently entwining his fingers through hers under the table before heading back to Oncology.

When he entered her apartment that night she latched her lips to his before he had set his briefcase down, wrapping her arms around his neck and burying her hands in his hair.

Her skin really did belong against his.

When enough time had passed so she felt as if she had regained her fill of him, Allison broke the kiss, grabbing his hand with hers and moving just far enough away so that their palms were the only things that touched.

Jimmy blinked, a ridiculous grin on his face. "Hello," he said pleasantly, finally dropping his briefcase to the floor. "Can we somehow arrange it so I can be greeted this way every night?"

Allison smiled. "If you're very good, I'll consider it."

He nodded seriously. "Then I'll be on best behavior from here on out."

She gave another small grin before shaking herself, taking another step away from him, looking at him earnestly. "I'm sorry. I know I've been distracted and difficult these past few days." She sighed, releasing his hand and bracing herself for the long justification she knew she owed to him. "I was upset, and it wasn't your fault, but I just-"

"Sh," he brought a finger to her lips. "It's all right."

Allison stared blankly.

"You don't have to explain yourself." He gave a rueful grin. "Everyone is entitled to their bad days." He moved closer and snaked an arm around her waist, leaning his forehead against hers.

And she didn't think she mistook the small exhalation of relief that came from his lips.

She, it seemed, hadn't been the only one who felt something missing.

Jimmy grinned. "Good luck during mine, by the way."

She resisted the urge to chuckle. "Are they spectacularly horrendous episodes then?"

He adopted a serious expression, nodding sagely. "Unfortunately. Children and small animals, some of the most innocent things in existence, become terribly obnoxious to me." He backed away, giving her a warning look. "They won't be safe in my presence."

She inclined her head, just as serious. "Noted. I'll be sure to clear your immediate area when such a mood strikes you."

"See that you do."

"I, along with mothers and animal lovers everywhere, appreciate the forewarning."

"Thought it was best that you were all prepared."

Allison smiled up at him, unbelievably grateful for his understanding. She became serious once more. "I am sorry, you know."

"I know." He backed away, kissing the back of her hand. "Even if you have no need to be." He smirked. "Besides, I expect you to make it up to me." He gave her hand a tug, pulling her towards the couch.

She followed, grinning despite herself. "Do you?"

"Yep." He gently nudged her onto the sofa, throwing his coat and scarf onto a nearby chair before joining her. "We have a very busy night ahead of us."

Allison raised an eyebrow. "We do?"

"Oh yes," he said gravely, nuzzling at her neck. "I do hope you're not overly fond of sleep, Doctor Cameron, as I am going to keep you occupied throughout the evening."

"My, Doctor Wilson," she mumbled, feigning shock and innocence. "What on Earth do you have in mind?"

"Actually," there was a moment of awkward shifting as he brought a hand to the coffee table, fumbling for something. "I was referring to the truck rally that's on tonight." There was a click as the television came on. "But I'm sure that I can find some way to appease you during the commercials."

Jimmy smiled at her innocently.

Allison scowled. "How generous."

He grinned, leaning close to her once more. "Wouldn't want you to feel neglected, now would I?" He gently kissed her neck, her cheek, the corner of her lips.

She gave a minute shake of her head, a mock-severe frown on her lips as she fought the impulse to return the gestures. "Certainly not."

Jimmy furrowed his brows at the declined angle of her mouth, displeased. "Now that certainly won't do." He kissed the unhappy lips, making a satisfied noise, not dissimilar to the one Allison made herself, as they parted under his ministrations.

Then there was an obtrusive chiming sound from by the doorway.

Jim's cell phone ringing merrily from his briefcase, which he had dropped so innocently a few moments earlier.

Both doctors let out a groan.

He sighed, pushing himself off of the couch and walking to his briefcase. After a moment he located his phone, looking at the screen before turning back to her, holding up a hand. "Hold that thought."

With that he retreated further into the apartment. Allison was just able to make out his voice coming from the bedroom, over the sounds of trucks smashing into one another.

She really did fail to see the appeal of this sort of entertainment. Going with House had been fun, all those years ago, but that had been more because she was with House rather than because she had any fondness for monster trucks.

For Jimmy, she thought she could learn to genuinely enjoy them.

Ten minutes later she found herself oddly engrossed by Killer Jaws as it and its driver smashed their way through fifteen smaller vehicles.

But when she heard the sound of Jim's footsteps, she quickly adopted an expression of bored indulgence. She took far too much satisfaction from lording his childish obsession to give it up.

Jimmy sighed, sinking back onto the couch. "Sorry about that."

"No problem. Who was it?" She smirked. "Mother checking up on you again?"

He groaned. "She calls _one_ time and you never let it go."

She was still smiling, amused by his annoyance. "Never," she agreed happily as she leaned against his chest, eyes locked, once again, on Killer Jaws.

He sighed throwing up his hands in defeat before settling one on her shoulder. "No, not my mother. It was Julie."

Allison felt herself stiffen.

James remained oblivious. "She called me a few days ago and we had dinner." He rubbed her shoulder soothingly. "We were just scheduling a lunch for next week."

She did her best to keep her tone carefully blank as she asked, "You've been going out with Julie?"

"Just eating, letting her talk." He sighed, the hand leaving her arm, no doubt to rub at his neck. "She's having a rough time of things. Having a tough time at work, with her parents." There was a small pause, a nearly audible swallow. "Regretting the abortion." The hand returned to her shoulder. "She needed someone, and with a family like hers I'm the only someone around."

And with a startling, painful, recognition, Allison discovered that Will had been right. Someone better, needier, more appealing had come along. And Jimmy couldn't help himself. Because he was incapable of standing by and doing nothing when someone needed him.

Of course it was just a dinner and a lunch. For now. But Allison had no doubt that it would only be a matter of time before Julie, or some other desperate woman, required something more from him, and James, being James, would give it to her. Because she would be like Allison, who he saw as needing comfort and reassurance. Who he had no choice but to gave his support, affection and time. And that wouldn't do.

Because Wilson loved everyone. And when a man loved everyone, he couldn't truly _love_ anyone.

It was his pathology. His own, personal, terminal illness.

And Allison was exhausted from a life of standing back and watching people die. Tired of being pulled under with them, losing more of herself with each heartbreaking casualty. She was tired of hurting the way she knew Jimmy would make her, despite his best intentions.

This was a problem that could not be ignored, not again. An issue that needed to be dealt with.

And Allison only had two ways of dealing with things.

One was in her control.

"I need to leave."

He sat up slightly, leaning over her. "To leave?"

She removed herself from his arms quickly, jumping to her feet. "Yes." She stopped herself as she began to head for the door, shaking her head, almost laughing at the absurdity of it. "No. This is my apartment." She turned back to him. "You're leaving." She searched around her, picking up the scarf and jacket he had abandoned only a short while before and shoving them onto his lap, retreating further into the house.

"Wait, Allison!" She heard him push the fabric off of his lap, stand up and follow her, confusion apparent. "Where did this come from? What's wrong?"

Allison said nothing, entering the bedroom and going through drawers, pulling out his few articles of clothing that had managed to find their way there.

"Because of Julie? Allison, its just food."

"No, no it's not because of Julie," she said quietly, almost to herself. "It's because I've come to my senses."

He frowned, obviously hearing her. "Come to your senses?"

She pushed the clothes into his hands, striding out of the room, knowing he would follow, refusing to stop to think about the full consequences of her actions.

If she thought too hard about what she was doing, she wouldn't be able to finish it.

She was just so very tired of being harmed so innocently by the beautifully damaged people that she cared for.

"You don't want this Wilson, not really. I'd rather be spared the spectacle," the pain, "that's bound to ensue when you realize it." She had made her way into the kitchen, snatching a spare plastic bag from a cabinet and taking the clothes from him, carefully placing the perfectly folded articles into the device.

She would hate to wrinkle his clothes.

He stared at her, shaking his head gently, incredulity apparent on every feature. "There's nothing to realize, Allison."

She walked out of the kitchen, Wilson still on her heels. "That's what you want to believe."

"I believe it because it's true."

Allison shook her head, picking his scarf and jacket up from the floor and placing them in his hands. "I don't have the time, the energy, to sort this, us, out, Wilson." She stopped moving long enough to look at him, to see his confounded expression, his disbelieving eyes. Those deep eyes of his.

She gave herself a firm shake. "I can't do it." She couldn't take the rejection again.

Wilson shook his head again, frowning. "What about us needs sorting?"

There was a significant pause as Allison contemplated the situation. Her attraction to the damaged, his endless aim to aid everyone he saw, her need to cling when in pain, his addiction to playing the savior, her past, his past, House.

Allison sighed. "Everything."

She turned for the door.

He dropped the bag, scarf and coat, gently taking hold of her elbow. "Allison, wait." His features were the model of sincerity. "I want to talk about this, and I swear I'll do my best to understand. Why are you leaving?" A single, desperate, look. "Really?"

She wanted to tell the truth. Wanted to explain to him that she, Allison Cameron, the person, wasn't what he truly wanted. Not her, not really. If he genuinely cared about her, then it was no more meaningful than how he cared for everyone else, in one way or another. No different than how he loved them all, drawn to whoever needed him the most. If, in that moment, she was that person, the one in the most urgent personal trauma, he would stay. But in the next instant he would lose interest and be gone.

Not because he was cruel or heartless, like Will thought, but because he cared for everyone too much to devote all of his attention to one person for long.

Allison would be no exception.

But she knew that it wouldn't be enough for Wilson. That he would fight her, make her question herself, lose the resolve that had come upon her so suddenly. That he would persuade her to stay, only to depart later.

And Allison didn't think she could bear being left again.

Fortunately, she knew what he needed to hear. Knew the one thing she could say that would make him leave without question. Knew what she had to say to protect herself.

And so she gave him a truth and a lie, a compromise she felt Clara would have been proud of.

She stared at the floor, not daring to look at his face. "Because if I stayed we'd both always be wanting something else."

Not long ago, the thought that she loved House had immobilized him for nearly a year.

It would work again.

There was a pained silence, a deafening quiet in which she could hear the sounds from the television and Wilson's, suddenly ragged, breathing.

"Is that true?" There was a note of devastation in that voice.

Allison kept her gaze firmly locked to the floor.

He shook her when she said nothing. "Allison, is that true?"

"I want you to go, Wilson." She glanced up, adopting a cold expression and staring at him straight in the eye. "I want you to leave."

He locked her gaze for an instant and then turned away, picking up his dropped clothes and walking towards the door. "Okay, Cameron." He grabbed his briefcase, sending her one final wounded expression of disbelief. "I'm leaving."

When the door closed Cameron was left alone with the sounds of crashing cars.

---

**Author's Note: **I'm hoping to post the last chapter and epilogue around the same time, but seeing as how the epilogue should be short, this (hopefully) won't be a huge issue in regards to how promptly I post. However, finals will be. –sigh- As soon as I'm on break I'll be writing non-stop until this baby is finished, I promise guys! Again, thank you all for your patience!


	15. To Believe Everything You Say, pt one

**Drenched **

**Summary:** House enjoys the company of a patient- obviously signaling the apocalypse, Wilson is getting a divorce, Chase is falling head over heals, Foreman's thinking of leaving the team and Cameron's sister has cancer. At least it's not raining. Yet.

**Disclaimer:** -sings- If I were a rich man! Ya ha deedle deedle, bubba bubba deedle deedle dum! All day long I'd biddy biddy bum! If I were a wealthy man I would own House and not have to write disclaimers ever. –ends singing abruptly- But I'm not. –pout- House belongs to David Shore and Fox. "It Doesn't Get Much Better Than This" is Nicole Burdette's. Because, alas, I am not a wealthy man.

**Author's Note:** I have noticed that this chapter, in its entirety, will be long. I have also noticed that, as of late, chapters to this fic have been very large. Hard-to-read large. It seemed like a good idea to cut this one in half. (This will be the shortest update since chapter three, people!) Unfortunately, I am not yet done with the entire chapter. However, it seemed silly not to post this bit up if I had it done. So, we've still got a while left, but here's something to tide you guys over until the New Year.

**LastScorpion ** goddess of the written word. Many thanks to her, again, for all of her hard work! Remember: Every sentence you read that doesn't make your eyes fall out is thanks to her. I'm thinking of fashioning a statue of her in her honor… Any of you guys happen to know how to wield metal?

This story is cannon-compatible up to "Skin Deep." (AKA: Ignore cannon! Ignore!)

Reviews/Reviewers are loved.

Thank you and enjoy!

---

**Chapter Eleven: To Believe Everything You Say, Part One**

_I want your strength in my soul  
And I want your soul in my eyes.  
I want to believe everything you say.  
And I do.  
And I want you to tell me what's best for me  
When I don't know.  
-Nicole Burdette_

---

Cameron was absolutely fine.

She had been attempting to brush off all claims to the contrary for the last week and a half, almost becoming hostile in her efforts to reassure everyone that she was, in fact, perfectly all right. Had she not been so irritated by the irrational concern of her colleagues, she might have been amused. When Clara died people were concerned, worried, but they weren't frantic. They didn't harass her constantly, didn't give her second glances when passing her in the hallway, didn't send her troubled gazes when they thought she wasn't looking. But given little more than a week without Wilson, and suddenly her coworkers and family were truly nervous about her mental state.

His presence alone couldn't have warranted such a drastic change in her emotional well-being, and any other motive for their sudden unease was beyond her. Whatever the reason, her frustration, doubt and uncertainty had been mounting (she tried to ignore the possibility that the reason for these changes was the fact that he was gone), matters not helped by Wilson's fairly consistent behavior.

No one asked him if he was doing all right. No one gave him suspicious stares or spoke to him in worried tones. In fact, had anyone glanced at him they would have assumed that all was well with the oncologist. And perhaps it was. Hopefully it was. Because if he was fine it meant that he hadn't been truly hurt by what she had done, and if he hadn't been hurt maybe she really had meant nothing of importance to him. Maybe the look he had sent her right before he walked out her door was nothing more than instinctual, a proper reaction for the way he was supposed to feel. Maybe she had imagined the betrayal she had seen in his eyes when he looked at her. Maybe her decision was as justified as she thought it was.

She had only been trying to protect herself.

However, James Wilson had an ability to wear sorrow so well that a person would be incapable of seeing the emotion on him if he didn't want them to. And Wilson certainly wouldn't want anyone to see his sorrow about this.

He hadn't been avoiding her. Hadn't been acting odd in her presence or done anything abnormal to indicate that they were on anything except for friendly, if impersonal, terms. Although they didn't eat lunch together anymore and he came by Diagnostics less, that simply implied that his workload had gotten heavier, that he no longer had the time to grab a meal before seeing the next grieving family or to baby-sit House and make sure he didn't get arrested for annoying his latest patient. Everyone was convinced by his act, if it was one. No one doubted his pleasant demeanor.

Wilson could deceive anyone.

Cameron, it seemed, wasn't so skilled.

She was mulling this fact over, internally grumbling, as she made her way to the lab, planning on meeting Chase who was already going over the blood work of their latest patient.

The grumbling abruptly stopped when she saw Chase's slumped frame. She walked closer and then nearly backed up a step when she was able to see the details of his appearance more clearly.

The man was obviously a wreck. Hair disheveled, hollows under his eyes as if he hadn't been sleeping, tie loose and hand shaking around the pen he was using to mark the patient files in front of him.

Not to mention that he had obviously lost the ability to create outfits that didn't make even the blind shudder at the sight of them.

Grey dress-pants, dark blue shirt and a orange plaid tie.

It was the audacity of the tie (and the fact that she had been lacking sleep herself), more than anything else that compelled Cameron to say, "You look horrible."

Chase jerked up, nearly upsetting his coffee mug on the counter beside him (which, technically shouldn't have been in the lab, but Cameron thought if there was any time to bend the rules, it was now), and gave his colleague a startled look.

Cameron resisted the urge to laugh. "I'm sorry, didn't mean to startle you." She leaned against the counter-top, observing Chase's struggles with more amusement than she probably should have.

It was nice to see someone else falling apart at the seams, for a change.

Chase sent her a mild glare, more for show than anything else, before lightly shaking himself, pinching the bridge of his nose. He gestured vaguely in her direction. "You're no ray of sunshine yourself."

She knew she must've look like a mess, with her lack of makeup, unironed clothes and the crinkles she could all but feel permanently etched into her forehead.

She gave a weak grin. "I suppose we do make for a sad sight."

"It would seem so. I guess Foreman's stuck with being House's eye-candy for the day."

"Foreman's not going to like that much."

Chase smirked, bringing the pen back to paper and scribbling another note on the chart. "Nope. Maybe through sheer intimidation he'll be able to get House to stop having sexual fantasies in the middle of diagnosing though." He paused, letting out a hopeful breath. "Wouldn't that be nice?"

She grinned. "It only bothers you because he includes you in them."

He gave a vigorous nod. "Well yeah. If you were in my situation-"

"I _am_ in your situation."

Chase paused, frowning briefly. "Okay, so you may be right."

Cameron smiled smugly.

"But at least he doesn't have a morbid fascination with your hair."

She inclined her head slightly. "You have a point."

"Think Foreman will put a stop to the madness?"

"He'll certainly try but…" She restrained a smile. "Doubtful. House is far too determined to annoy all of us when the opportunity presents itself. More likely than not, Foreman will just encourage him."

Chase deflated, looking away from the charts and up to her helplessly. "You're right." A sigh. "This is going to be a long week." He turned his attention back to the charts, expression losing some of its playful edge. "Well," he amended. "Longer than it was already shaping up to be."

There was a silence, Chase biting on his pen before bringing it back to patient file, the man serious and focused once more.

Cameron frowned thoughtfully.

Something was off. More than Chase's suddenly sober mood. She eyed him carefully, noting again the dejected set of his shoulders, the slope of his back, the calm and somewhat bored way in which he dully marked 'x's on the patient history.

He was obviously tired, miserable and clearly in need of a personal dresser, but he was comfortable.

And he was still there.

"Why aren't you bolting out of the room?"

Chase raised an eyebrow without looking away from his work. "Hm?"

Cameron turned to face him fully, staring at him quizzically. "For nearly a year you've been scampering off when I got within ten feet of you."

"Right." Chase looked up, bringing up his pen to his mouth. "Could we just pretend I went running off?" A grin. "I don't have enough energy to scamper properly."

"Sounds fine by me." She smiled. "I could use the company."

And she really could.

"Excellent."

There was a comfortable silence as Cameron dragged a chair over, sitting down next to Chase and waiting for results from the blood work to come in as he scribbled away.

She had missed this.

Cameron had forgotten that she and Chase, not too long ago, had been friends. That they had hung out, talked to each other, if only about trivial things. They had been comfortable with one another. Somewhere along the way (about a month or two after her charming meth experience), that comfort had been lost. Which was unfortunate, because Chase was a good friend to have, even on a casual level.

For almost a year there had been a gaping void between them, an unseen line that neither could cross and that Chase had seemed content to avoid entirely. And now, just as suddenly as it had appeared, that line was gone, and Cameron allowed herself to remember how much she had enjoyed Chase's company.

Her friends were in short supply these days. It would be the utmost foolishness to dismiss the ones she had left.

There was an awkward cough from Chase, interrupting her thoughts.

"I dated your sister-in-law," he said to the paper he was writing on, shifting in his seat.

Cameron frowned, noting something off at the declaration but unable to place it. "I know."

"I figured," he muttered. "But I'm telling you. I dated her." He took another bite at his pen, finally looking at her. "Sorry."

She raised a puzzled brow. "Sorry?"

"For not mentioning it sooner. For going out with her at all, for infringing on your turf, for sleeping with you when you were high." He let out a bitter laugh, quickly running a hand through his hair. "Really, I think I have reason to apologize for just about everything I've done in the past year and a half."

Cameron gave her head a small shake, marveling. "Chase, you don't need to be sorry for any of that."

Another false laugh. "I'm pretty sure I do."

"Is that why you've been this way?"

"What way?"

She paused briefly, pondering how best to describe it. "The scampering?"

"Ah." He gave a small nod. "Pretty much."

She shook her head again. A year after the fact and he was still agonizing over one stupid night when she wasn't in her right mind and he was just trying to help a friend.

Sex, she had learned throughout the past months, ruined the best friendships.

If it weren't unbelievably fun, she would have become celibate long ago.

Cameron leaned forward in her seat, staring at Chase intently. "Chase, that night, it was a silly mistake. If any one of us should apologize it should be me for putting you in that situation to begin with." She gave a humorless grin, thinking of Wilson. "I have a tendency to do this kind of thing."

He gave his head a firm and immediate shake. "Doesn't excuse what I did or what I've done."

"Chase, there's nothing to excuse." She looked at him earnestly, confusion evident on her face. "I thought you knew that."

He heaved a sigh. "So did I. And then a month went by and I realized I didn't." He gave her a sardonic glance, throwing the pen on the table. "Hindsight sucks." He softened his expression. "But I am sorry."

She returned the glance, staring seriously. "Me too." She paused smirking. "We've already agreed on no more sex, right?"

He raised an eyebrow. "In general or with each other?"

Cameron rolled her eyes.

He grinned. "Yes." A nod. "Too complicated."

She mimicked the gesture. "Good. Now can we go back to being friends?"

"Yes." He grinned. "Especially if it means that you'll let me have some of the coffee you make for yourself every morning."

Cameron eyed his cup of coffee suspiciously. "You're not so skilled at it, then?"

Chase shuddered violently, all but glaring at the offending liquid. "No, no I am not. Sammy used to make some for me in the morning, but now…" He paused, biting at a nail. "But now I'm stuck with my own stuff."

Cameron sat up straighter in her seat, finally realizing what had seemed so off earlier in the conversation. "Speaking of Sammy, since we are friends again," she gave a sweet smile that Chase returned with a glare. "I was wondering if you could clarify a point of confusion for me?"

"You say it as if I actually have a choice," he muttered.

She continued on as if she hadn't heard him. "You said you 'dated' Sammy?"

He picked up his pen again. "Yeah."

When nothing further appeared forthcoming, she scowled. "Chase."

He sighed, taking another swipe at his hair before letting out, "I broke up with her."

Cameron sent him a disapproving and mildly confused frown.

Chase obviously sensed the displeasure and jumped to his own defense. "It was going to happen at some point anyway. I was just speeding up the process."

She folded her arms across her chest, staring at him sadly. "That's a shame."

"Yes." He snorted. "I'm a grave loss to the family dynamic, I'm sure."

Cameron shrugged off his sarcasm. "You were good for each other."

"Right," he said disbelievingly, sending her a sideways look. "Well, it's over now. Which is for the best, really. All things considered."

He seemed more like he was trying to convince himself than her.

"Do you really believe that?"

"Yes." He gave a self-affirming nod. "Yes, I do." He bit on his thumbnail. "I have to."

Cameron stared in muted shock. Maybe it was because he was tired, but Chase had just revealed a hint of uncertainty, voluntarily offered a piece of his internal workings without her having to interrogate him in order to get.

This sort of thing, from Chase, was a big deal.

Cameron felt the need to return the gesture of trust, least he think upon what he said too much.

In a rush, she began. "Wilson and I-"

"I know."

She blinked. "You know?" A scowl overtook her features. "Did House-"

"No, I'm just not blind." He sent her an amused look. "Might want to work on the uncontrollable grin you get whenever you see him." The expression morphed, his brow furrowing. "Except you haven't had those recently. Not for the past few days. In fact, I haven't seen you around Wilson at all." He leaned forward in his seat. "Something happened. Something bad. Something you caused."

She glared. "Why do you assume-"

"Because if you didn't think it was your fault, you wouldn't want to talk about it. It wouldn't matter to you; you'd accept what Wilson did. Not like it, but accept it, because that's what you do." He tilted his head, smirking. "But you're trying to absolve yourself."

Cameron scowled, slumping slightly. "You've been around House too long."

Chase gave a careless shrug. "It's been four years, I ought to have learned something from the man." He nudged her gently. "What happened?"

Cameron had just opened her mouth to respond when Foreman strode into the lab, grasping onto a piece of paper and smiling eagerly as he entered the room.

"Hey guys, look at these res-" He halted mid-word, no doubt noting that his two colleagues who hadn't spoken in many months were suddenly buddies. "What did I interrupt?"

Cameron sighed, sitting up and shaking her head. "Nothing."

"Details about Cameron's love-life." Cameron promptly hit Chase upside the head. "Ow!"

Foreman folded his hands over his chest, nodding knowingly. "Right. Something happened with you and Wilson."

She raised her hands up in the air. "How does everyone know about this?"

"Did you talk to your brother?" Foreman asked, coming further into the room.

Cameron frowned, eyeing the man suspiciously. "Yes."

"Did you ignore him like any sane person would have?"

Cameron shifted her feet, locking her eyes to the ground.

Chase was looking from one person to the other, obviously lost. "Her brother?"

"Was convinced Wilson, and you, were scum." Foreman offered helpfully. "House, however, was a charming guy."

The intensivist gave an exaggerated nod. "Right, well. How could Wilson and I expect to compete?"

Foreman hadn't moved his eyes away from Cameron. "He got to you, didn't he?"

"He didn't get to me." Cameron muttered, still staring at her shoes. "I just saw his point."

Chase turned to Foreman pleadingly, still confused.

Foreman indulged him. "He said Wilson just wanted to sleep around and would drop Cameron when he was through."

The younger man gave another nod. "Right."

Cameron turned to the neurologist accusingly, amazed that he knew so many of the intimate details of her life. "How do you know…?"

"He talked to me a few weeks ago, trying to weed out information."

"Well there's further proof of his idiocy," Chase remarked blandly, picking up his pen once more and jotting down some notes on the patient file. "Never go to Foreman for the gossip."

Cameron scowled. "My brother's not an idiot." Even if he did have an amazing ability to act like one at times.

Foreman shrugged. "Well he can't be the most intelligent guy, if he trusts House unquestioningly but feels the need to interrogate people about Wilson."

She sighed, glaring at the two men. "You both watch Wilson around here."

Chase took another bit on the pen. "He flirts, but that's no reason-"

She shook her head. "Not the flirting."

The two other doctors stared at her with interest, obviously intrigued.

Cameron sighed. "He gets overly attached to everyone. He loves everyone. And he can't stop. Why do you think he's been around House so long? He can't cease to care about the man, even when common sense says he should."

Chase looked unimpressed. "So?"

"So I'm just another mistress! But instead of taking him from one woman, I'm taking him from everybody. And you know Wilson." She deflated, clutching at her waist. "It's never the mistress that he goes home to."

There was a dramatic moment of silence.

Which Chase abruptly ended with, "That's crap, Cameron."

She glared at him. "You broke up with Sammy and are, therefore, in no position to criticize."

Foreman's head snapped up and he joined Cameron at glaring at the man. "You what?"

"This isn't about me. We're talking about Cameron's love-life." He pointed to her for emphasis. "Cameron."

Without warning Foreman let out a large huff of air, storming off to the exit of the room.

Chase and Cameron exchanged a worried glance.

"Foreman?" Chase asked hesitantly.

"I just remembered why I chose to know nothing about your personal lives," Foreman muttered as he reached the door.

Cameron grinned. "And why's that?"

The neurologist sent them a longsuffering look. "Because Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital contains the largest concentration of intelligent stupid people in the whole of the universe."

With that he flung open the door and strode out of the lab, leaving the two other doctors to stare after him.

After a few moments of silence Chase looked over to Cameron, a mildly insulted look on his face. "I think he just called us morons."

---

"You're moping."

"I don't mope."

"You haven't been out of your office all week except to deliver death sentences. You're moping."

"House, I'm not moping."

"Right. You've just become quiet and introspective and worthless as a source of entertainment."

"I'm sorry to have failed you so."

House sighed, resisting the urge to throw the large tennis ball he was currently playing with against the other doctor's head. Ultimately, he decided against such actions, knowing that should he throw the ball he would just have to get up in order to retrieve it again. So, instead, he contented himself to muttering an annoyed, "You're pathetic."

"Says the guy who hid from Cuddy for four hours in a storage room."

They were in Wilson's office, House doing his best to distract his friend from the mountain of paperwork on top of his desk, all of which the Head of Oncology seemed determined to tackle. Now was not the time for paperwork. Now was the time for Wilson the Boy Wonder to indulge House's curiosity and tell him what the hell had gone wrong.

Because something had obviously gone wrong.

It was nothing a casual observer would have thought of as odd. The sudden reclusion, the added wrinkles to his face, the tired lines around his eyes and the slightest shortening of his normally infinite fuse. All easy signs to recognize, but all equally easy to dismiss. He had a lot of work on his plate, hadn't been sleeping enough, was too strained by his patient load. All serious problems, but nothing that Wilson wasn't more than capable of handling on his own.

These were all perfectly reasonable and neat explanations for Wilson's current behavior. Reasonable, neat and wrong explanations, but House appreciated the effort that others had put into concocting them.

Wilson could deceive everyone except for House. Most of the time, anyway.

And even though Wilson had kept the act up admirably, the angry red expanse of skin under his right ear, his passive avoidance of Diagnostics and Miss, 'look at my face and you'll know my life story,' Cameron all gave him away.

House really did need to teach his immunologist to lie better. It almost embarrassing, how transparent she could be, especially when the diagnostician prided himself on his role as an excellent mentor in the ways of the world. That one of his minions failed at the basic and necessary skill of deception was a humiliation House really couldn't tolerate. After all, if everyone lied they had a certain obligation to lie well, or else what was the point of his nifty catchphrase?

But he was getting off track.

Currently, House's mission was to figure out what had gotten his sidekick and lackey (number two) into such a large tizzy.

House put his hands behind his head, stretching out further on Wilson's couch. "I'll have you know that the storage room was quite spacious. I was just thinking about making it an addition to the office. Put some paperwork in there."

"And if it wasn't on the other side of the hospital, that would almost be convincing," Wilson muttered, scribbling on a patient file at his desk. "I can picture you putting important documents in another room just so you wouldn't have to look at them, thereby making it easier to ignore them."

"Yeah. Just think how easy it's going to be when they're across the building."

He raised his eyebrows without looking away from his work. "Funny."

House sighed, carefully adjusting himself so he was sitting up in the couch. He promptly adopted a glare and fixed it on the man behind the desk. "What happened?"

Wilson frowned, still writing furiously. "What do you mean 'what happened'?"

"Between you and Cameron."

He looked up, a quick startled expression passing over his features before he turned back to his files. "Nothing."

House smirked. Nice try, Jimmy, but not good enough. "Something happened." He studied Wilson curiously. "What did you do?"

Wilson stopped writing and glared. "Why am I always the one that did something wrong?"

"Because wandering hands and eyes do nothing but get a man bitch slapped. Did it hurt?"

Wilson frowned. "What?"

House made a slapping gesture in the air.

"No!" Wilson responded instantly. He scowled and kneaded the skin on the back of his neck. "There was no slapping."

House noted the action suspiciously, eyes narrowing. "But you did do something."

He rubbed at the spot some more, shifting in his seat. "I had lunch with Julie."

House blinked, tone incredulous and utterly confused. "Why?"

The only reasonable explanation House could have for Wilson seeing that harpy again involved a shotgun and shovel.

The oncologist threw his hands into the air, shouting. "Because she asked! Because I felt sorry for her, I don't know." He exhaled loudly, bringing his hands down and resting his head in them. "It doesn't matter."

House observed the antics with interest, waiting until they were through before dryly commenting, "Of course it doesn't matter. If it did you'd be agonizing over the whole thing far more ardently. You, however, aren't agonizing. You're sulking."

"Just leave it alone, House," Wilson mumbled into his hands.

House frowned. That was far too dejected of a tone to indicate Jimmy's normal, mild, self-pity. No, this was the big kind of pity. The kind that only got broken out during times of intense personal suffering and no small amount of guilt, because Wilson's hedonism always involved a large portion of culpability.

And although Wilson had plenty of things, imagined or not, to regret and be ashamed of, there was only one type of guilt that caused him to become incapable of looking at House.

"It was me, wasn't it?"

"No." He was still speaking into his hands.

"You're lying."

Wilson let out a groan, removing his hands from his face and staring at his friend gravely. "House, it doesn't matter, it really doesn't. The only thing that's important is that whatever Cameron and I might have had is over." He stood up from behind his desk, moving in front of his the large piece of furniture and leaning against it. "We were scratching at the bottom of our collective barrel and we've both decided that we're through." He stared at his friend seriously. "Completely."

House eyed Wilson suspiciously, knowing that earnest look.

He hated that look. It meant that Jimmy had done something stupidly sacrificial, had laid himself on the altar, as it were. It meant that Wilson was playing the martyr again. And frankly, House firmly believed that in this particular instance such an act of blatant idiocy shouldn't be allowed.

Because House was supposed to be the sacrificial one this time, had snagged the opportunity long before his friend have even contemplated it. Wilson wasn't supposed to steal the glory away from him, rob him of his first, and possibly last, attempt to be a 'decent person.'

House had done a good, honorable thing. He had stopped being a selfish ass just long enough to give up something that was his.

As much as Cameron belonged to anyone, at that point, she belonged to House.

Not to say that he had signed a pink slip or anything, but House was well aware that his possessive nature gave off an impression of ownership. He had the suspicion that this impression took on the form of large, neon signs flashing the words, "PROPERTY OF GREGORY HOUSE. BACK OFF OR RISK DEATH BY CANE," over anything and anyone he viewed as his own.

He really should have just such a sign made for his desk. And Gameboy.

Reluctantly, House had internally acknowledged that from the moment he had hired Cameron he had seen her as his. And maybe, in whatever small way, Cameron thought she belonged to him as well.

Or at least she had, not so long ago. Back when she had blushed when he stepped too close to her, when she would boldly ask him if he liked her with a vulnerable expression on her face. When they shared truck rallies and cotton candy, when they had a meal in a fancy place and she stated in a tone that broke no argument that House liked her, despite what he might have said to imply otherwise. Back when she had accepted his judgment without reservation, found no reason to question his motives or intentions.

Then, at least, she had seen herself as his.

But things had changed. She had grown cautious, almost fearful, of him and House found that he really had no reason to have his immunologist at all. Beyond his basic desire to lay claim to anything he came in contact with, there were no grounds for this compulsion to possess her in any way.

After all, House didn't like Cameron (House didn't like people). She was too nice, too innocent. She infuriated him, with her vulnerability and her all but desperate, twisted desire to make people hurt her. She was stupid in her need to aid the helpless, in her caring and empathy, her reaching out to those who would only cause her pain. And willful stupidity had never been something House could tolerate.

And, most importantly, Cameron was fragile in ways that made him nervous. That made him acutely aware of all the ways in which he could crush her, carefully deconstruct her and then recreate her in his own image. The potential was there, to undertake such a reshaping. To make her smarter, wiser, less trusting and more suspicious, less caring and more self-serving.

And House knew that, should he have her in the way he would never admit he wanted, such an opportunity would present itself, and he would be incapable letting it pass him by. He _would_ crush her, or at least all the important parts of her. He would make her more distrustful, exploitive and miserable, make her smarter and less likely to be hurt by people like him, because he would simply be powerless to passing up the chance to do so. Because he would be convinced it was for her own good.

And if Cameron changed, was reshaped, she would lose those infuriating qualities that made her worth having in the first place.

No, House didn't want Cameron.

But Wilson did, and he would protect the fragile bits of her. Nurture them, help them grow. Wilson, by his very nature, would be incapable of crushing her.

So House, for the first time, had done the noble thing. (Despite the fact that the noble ones missed out on all of the fun.) He had given up the girl to his friend, convinced that the gesture would not only provide the two parties involved with a small measure of happiness, but also restore some balance to his karmic meter.

House had always been a, 'one stone, two birds' type of guy.

But he had forgotten that his friend was an exceptional breed of altruistic imbecile.

House shot up from seat, glaring. "Jimmy, you moron! Did you think I was lying when I said I didn't want her? Thought I was just testing your loyalty by seeing how unbelievably stupid you could be?" House fumed, stalking angrily towards his friend until he was a mere foot from him, shouting into his face.

"Right!" Wilson said, standing up as well, yelling.

House found himself unconsciously taking a step back.

A hostile Wilson was not something House had dealt with on a consistent enough basis to judge what he was capable of.

"Because you always say what you mean! Because you would never test our friendship in such an unreasonable manner!" He snorted. "Sorry if I stepped out of line, House. A reaction like mine came out of nowhere, didn't it?"

In an instant all of the times House had lied to Wilson flashed through his head. All of the money he had borrowed and stole, all of the times he had called him in times in strife with no regard to Wilson's own schedule, the times he'd had come to House's without being called. House was reminded of all the ways he had pushed and strained the friendship, of all the reasons Wilson had to doubt his motives.

They were almost enough to cool his temper.

Almost.

"You know, forget me. I just find it amazing that you have all of the women, and some of the men, in this hospital wrapped around your finger but you can't managed to stay with the woman you actually want for more than a month!"

And just as quickly as Wilson's rage had entered, it left, leaving the man deflated. He rubbed at his neck and shook his head, looking at the diagnostician tiredly. "House, leave it."

House grumbled internally. Exhausted acceptance was not what he was aiming for, wasn't what would make Wilson stop spewing crap and start telling the truth.

"Did you literally beat her away with a stick? Because I don't know how else you could've pushed that clinging ball of fluff away."

"She didn't like my cologne," Wilson snapped as he began to make his away around his desk. "Now go away and let me work."

"Women love your cologne, and thank God for it, with the money you spend on the crap."

All House had to do was keep talking. To get Wilson angry enough or irritated enough to give him the truth if only to get rid of him. House hobbled forward, snatching away the file that Wilson had just grabbed. "What happened?"

Wilson glared. "Don't you have patients to see?"

"Nope. I'm free to annoy you at my leisure." House stared at the man intently. "Tell me."

Wilson let out a sigh. "Fine, House," he said dismally, scratching at his neck. He glanced up at House. "She wants you."

House let out a grumble. "I thought we went over this."

Wilson locked his gaze. "We did. You were wrong. Will you let me work now, please?"

Without waiting for an answer Wilson snatched the file from House's suddenly limp fingers, grabbing his formerly discarded pen and beginning to write.

That was unexpected.

House shook himself, scowling at the oncologist. "Why are you in here doing paper work? Go ravage her against a wall or something. Do the Jimmy thing and seduce her."

"I think I'll stay with the files, thanks."

"Wilson, you love her." House made a shooing gesture. "Go forth and," he adopted a sickeningly sweet tone, "_follow your heart._"

Wilson shook his head, letting out a bitter smile as he continued to write. "I don't, House."

"Stop being an idiot and just g-"

"House!" Wilson screamed at last, staring at House with a deadly serious look. "I don't love her." A small pause and a barely noticeable exhalation as he locked his gaze to his desk. "There's no point in loving someone who won't love you back." He glanced up again. "She does, however, love you. And she has far more persistence than I." The serious look was back. "Take advantage of it before it's too late."

House resisted the blinding urge reach across the desk and strangle the man.

He had already given Cameron up. The decision had been made and there was no going back, no changing his mind. House had never been a fan of indecision, of questioning himself when he was certain of the soundness of his choices. He might not like the choice, might not think that it would bring the most personal pleasure or that there wasn't a possibility of regretting it later. But it was, nonetheless, the right one.

House had, after all, become an expert at driving away the women he loved for their own good.

Now was no exception.

Uncertainty wouldn't be helpful, wouldn't do anything except for make the situation seem much more complicated than it actually was. There was always a right and best choice, and once it was found any alternative was just a poor substitution. House had made the best choice, and now any doubts were to be disproved or mocked until they lost all validity.

But he knew that Wilson was far past the point of listening to any arguments House had to give. It was like quarrelling with a brick wall; House could yell all he wanted, the only way to get that damn thing to break was to take a sledgehammer to it. Wilson was just too stubborn for any other method to have any hope at being effective.

Unfortunately, House was fresh out of emotional sledgehammers and Wilson didn't look as if he was in the mood to wait around for him to go dig one up.

Throwing one last disgusted look into the office, ignoring the self-righteous expression on Wilson's face, House slammed the door and stalked to his own department, fuming.

Wilson was an idiot past reason. Any attempts to see his master plan through to completion would have to be carried out on a different front.

So, House would just have to attack this problem from another angle. One more vulnerable to his particular brand of sledgehammer.

He opened the door to Diagnostics, grinning in satisfaction as he made his way to the sole comfortable chair in the office, temper cooling as a plan of action began to form. Not tonight (Cameron had already gone home), but tomorrow would do nicely.

Feeling smug, House whipped out his Gameboy, smiling as prepared to face the final level of his game. Success, he felt certain, was guaranteed.

---

Physical exhaustion was not Chase's largest problem, although it certainly wasn't helping the unfortunate state he had found himself in for the past week.

Each night he would lie awake in bed for hours on end, staring at the ceiling and doing his best not to think. This then caused him to stay up from all this effort exerted in the task of not thinking, only drifting off into a restless sleep an hour or two before work.

No. That didn't help at all.

But that wasn't the real problem. That was the intense bone-weariness that had seemed to overtake Chase completely in the past weeks. A sense of hopelessness, futility and worthlessness greeted him each morning upon waking, traveling with him throughout his day like a dark cloud. He tried not to let it show, tried to keep this exhaustion a private matter, something personal and untouchable to the rest of the world.

He had been failing, obviously, which surprised him. Chase had very rarely been unsuccessful at hiding his personal life from those around him. It was a point of pride, really. In the past twenty years he had only been ineffective at concealing his personal strife twice. Once, when his father died, resulting in the death of a good woman. And now, resulting in the unwanted attention of one Allison Cameron.

The consequences weren't quite as dire this time. After all, he had, somehow, through their exchange earlier in the day, managed to regain a friend. That was a rather nice upside to having Cameron's renewed and constant concern.

Now he just had to deal with her renewed and constant concern.

He had no idea why he had let the newest intimate details of his life slip. Didn't know how he could have let such a point of interest, especially to Cameron, get by his defenses. He assumed it was testament to his exhaustion, more than anything else. That lack of sleep had made his thinking hazy, had made him lose a small measure of his senses.

It never occurred to him to admit that it was because he missed Sammy enough so that every thought was tainted with her. That the reason he couldn't help himself from mentioning her, when partaking in a conversation with a friend, was because he had ceased to be able to separate her from any other part of his life. That her absence became a nearly physical force, one that made each aspect of his existence a little less without her in it.

He couldn't acknowledge that deprived of her, he had become a little emptier.

Of course, there was nothing to admit. Chase didn't care about her, and any effect she might have had on his life, at one point or another, was diminutive at best. Her loss meant nothing to him. His new mood was likely inspired by an increased workload in Diagnostics, the fervor with which Cuddy was now forcing him into clinic duty and his inability to sleep, caused by stress.

That was all it was.

These were Chase's thoughts as he slumped in front of his television, a bowl of oatmeal in his hands, and prepared to enjoy his meal while watching his latest purchased DVD.

This was his life. Television, exercise, sleep (when he could get it) and then work. Some nights he'd go barhopping, some nights he would stay home. It was a reassuring system that made it possible for Chase to live his life like 'a leaf on the wind.' He had obligations to no one except for himself. He could empathize with his fellow man without particularly caring about him, and his emotions were in a fierce hold that no one could penetrate.

Chase's mouth contorted into a frown as he flicked on his TV. But at some point, that had stopped being enough. He took less joy in the acquaintances he had made, the girls he picked up, the life he was leading. He wanted more, something deeper, meaningful and significant.

For the first time, Chase was dissatisfied with the superficial life he had masterfully created for himself.

And thinking like that was stupid, dangerous and inspired by ridiculous notions he had thought he had outgrown many years ago.

He shook himself, focusing on the TV once more.

Chase was a leaf on the wind. And he liked it, dammit.

Having firmly reached this conclusion and determined to stop thinking entirely, Chase turned up the volume and slouched further into his couch, ready to enjoy he mind-numbing wonders of action movies.

Five minutes later, his doorbell rang.

Chase groaned. He had a particularly annoying neighbor who often came by, asking for food, appliances and physical labor. Despite Chase's many attempts to subtly hint that he had no desire to 'lend him a cup of sugar,' the man kept coming back, willfully ignorant of Chase's annoyance.

Subtlety, apparently, was lost upon most.

Grumbling, Chase stood up, walked to the door and flung it open, ready to send the guy a message that would be impossible to decipher incorrectly, only to be stopped short.

He felt his body lighten, felt a smile forming on his lips and a warm greeting ready to burst forth from his throat.

Instead, he stifled such compulsions instantly and allowed himself one small gulp as he viewed the figure in his doorway.

"You."

Sammy smiled nervously, tucking loose strands of hair behind her ears before straightening herself, staring at him directly. "Me."

Chase closed his eyes, counted to three and opened them again.

Still there.

He was tempted to try it again, but with the way she was looking at him (like he was a lunatic), he had a feeling that she was not, in fact, a figment of his imagination.

"What are you doing here?"

Perhaps not the most tactful of questions, but it was Chase's most pressing.

This was not how these things went. He broke up with a woman, he stopped thinking about her, she mourned for a month, badmouthed him to all of her friends and relatives, and they never saw each other again.

That was how things worked.

Or at least it had been.

Sammy pushed herself past him and into his apartment, Chase incapable of stopping her from the sheer shock of the situation. His jaw was still gaping open, after all. Thwarting her from entering his home was obviously beyond him.

"I'm preventing you from destroying your life completely," she said levelly, glancing around his apartment with interest.

He had only brought her back to his home a handful of times, none of the visits lasting longer than half an hour.

Now he was annoyed at himself for having brought her at all. Had she never visited, she never would have gotten the address and the current fiasco of Chase having to see her again wouldn't be happening.

Regaining himself, he quickly closed his door, shooting after her as she started to walk down the hallway, studying the various posters on his walls with interest.

She had no place snooping around when she would be leaving shortly.

Getting himself in front of her and blocking her progress, Chase sent her an indulgent grin. "Sammy, my life won't fall apart without you in it."

She locked her gaze with his, sending him a mirror image of his smile. "Yes it will."

Chase simply raised an eyebrow, unimpressed and mildly amused by her conviction. Still shocked by her presence, of course, but he thought he was doing a mighty fine job at faking nonchalance.

"Maybe not right now. Not in a few weeks, you might even be able to get through a couple of months just fine. But eventually your regret is going to catch up to you." She narrowed her eyes, squinting at him in the sparse light, examining him critically. "And from the look of you, it already has."

Chase ran a hand through his hair, finding himself at an utter loss as to what to say.

He hadn't expected to see her again. Had started to, tried to, erase all feelings connected to her completely. Having her standing in his hallway and forcing him to confront more than just the memory of her was too much. She didn't belong here, with him. She was supposed to be gone, leaving him in peace with only his recollections of her left to haunt him.

Her coming back was not helping this master plan, which Chase found downright irritating. He had spent his life creating this method, crafting the flawless guide to meaningless, casual and shallow relationships. She didn't have the right to change it, to try and defy the system.

She had to realize that she wasn't nearly as special as she thought she was.

As Chase was starting to believe she was.

He bit on his nail, glaring at her and readjusting his stance, eyeing the stubborn jut of her chin shrewdly.

He would make her understand.

"Sammy-"

"No, Rob."

Chase found himself snapping his mouth shut, intimidated by the certainty of her tone.

"I'm not going to let you try to convince yourself and me that I shouldn't be here." She shook her head firmly. "That's not important." She took a step forward, staring at him intently. "What _is_ important is that I forgive you."

Chase blinked repeatedly at her. "You forgive me?"

"Yes," she said with a grin. "I forgive you for pretending that you don't love me."

Chase resisted the urge to snort. "Look, Sammy-"

She brought a hand to his lips, and he was silenced instantly.

He had forgotten how much he loved the feel of those rough fingertips against his skin.

"I understand why you did it." She kept her hand over his mouth, her eyes wide and sympathetic as she spoke. "You're afraid that if you love me you're going to have to give up something. That I'm going to take it from you and make you weak, make you vulnerable. And Rob, I hate to say it, but you're right."

Chase narrowed his eyes, frowning under her hand.

"If you love me I _am_ going to take something from you, and you _are_ weaker without it. It does make you vulnerable and it makes it so much easier for other people, especially me, to hurt you."

This was not the proper way to win an argument. Did she think that agreeing with him would earn her some points? That she could acquiesce until he changed his mind?

She took in a deep breath, her hand still covering his mouth. "So I understand why you wouldn't want to feel the way you do." She paused. "There's only one problem."

He raised an eyebrow, his ability to question her obviously limited.

She grinned at him, leaning forward until she was only inches away. "That little piece of yourself that you're trying to desperately to protect? The one you're torturing both of us in order to keep safe?" She brought her mouth to his ear, Chase able to feel her hair against his neck as she whispered, "I already have it."

Chase shivered, studying her when she pulled away.

It was the looking at her that did it. Looking at her, feeling her hands, hearing her voice as it scolded him gently. It was the fact that his entire being seemed to let out a relieved sigh at her nearness, that as long as she was here, with him, he knew he would be able to sleep, peacefully, for the first time in weeks.

It was the combination of those facts that forced him to contemplate the possibility that she could be right.

Maybe.

Sammy removed her hand from his mouth. "And I'm not giving it back." She gave a sideways grin. "The only way you're going to keep an eye on it is to stay close to me." She took a small step backwards, giving a small nod. "So that's what you're going to do."

She was a woman on a mission, and Chase had known within a week of meeting her that the objectives of Sammy's missions were always met. The smartest thing for Chase to do would be to sit back and let her have her way.

This time, her goal was Chase. And she was going to reach it, consequences be damned.

She obviously didn't have a clear conception of what she was getting herself into.

"Sammy, we can't do this. Not seriously."

She scoffed, coming forward once more and wrapping her arms around his waist, leaning her forehead against his and smiling.

Sammy, he was quickly learning, always got her way.

"Of course we can. You just don't want to try, because if we try and fail you'll get hurt."

"That's not why-"

"Yes it is," she interrupted smoothly.

Chase let out a huff of air, annoyed. But he still brought his hands to the small of her back, still took a large breath, still savored her smell.

They both knew his annoyance was for show.

"And that's okay," she reassured him quickly, brining her head away from his. "But you know what, Rob? If you're not willing to get hurt on occasion you'll never achieve anything worth having." She smiled widely. "And this, us." She let out a small, satisfied, sigh as she brought her forehead back to his. "We're worth having."

She really had no idea what she dooming herself to.

Because this wasn't a 'let's keep dating for a few months' sort of declaration. This was the big kind of declaration that made mothers get teary-eyed and fathers clench their fists in warning. That led to two names on the apartment lease, to having someone to wake up to and go to sleep with. That guaranteed arguments and fights, to sticking it out even when it would be infinitely easier to throw in the towel. It led to a future that spanned beyond the next season, hinted at possibilities that were years, generations, away.

Sammy's pronouncement stated that this was going to be for keeps. It wasn't going to be just for fun.

And that scared the crap out of Chase.

Unfortunately, he had run out of reasons to push her away.

She probably had just been ignoring the reasons to run screaming from him.

Now would be an apt time to remind her of these.

He extracted himself from her grip, staring at her seriously. "Sammy, I can't give anything to you. I have money and a good job, but that's not enough. That's not what a person really needs."

She just grinned. "They certainly help."

He glared. "I'm trying to be serious."

"So am I. With all the problems I get myself into I have no doubt that dating a doctor will be a plus."

"Sammy, I'm can't-" He paused, biting on a nail as he attempted to find a delicate way to say what he meant.

He quickly determined that there wasn't one.

"I'm not good, with relationships. I don't like them and they certainly have never been kind to me."

Sammy looked at him seriously. "I know." She came forward and kissed him on the cheek shrugging. "But we love each other and that will be enough."

She brought her arms around him again, forcing him to do the same as he rolled his eyes at her naivety.

She seemed to sense his disbelief. "Besides, to keep you around I'm more than willing to be patient with your emotional immaturity."

"You say that, but when I do something stupid you'll change your mind."

"I'm here, aren't I?"

Chase frowned.

She had a point.

Sammy smirked. "Rob, accept it. I'm not letting you leave me."

Chase sighed, running out of things to scare her with. Finally, he pulled away from her slightly, stared at her and resorted to a stern, "This is a bad idea."

"No it's not, it's the best idea I've had in a long time," she responded cheerfully, hugging him again. "And you too, I'm certain."

He let out a small laugh, shaking his head.

Sammy always got her way.

Accepting defeat, Chase muttered, "How is it that you seem to believe that you know everything?"

"I don't," she replied. "You only think I do because you seem to know so little."

Chase glared, trying to erase the smile on his lips. "You take sadistic pleasure in being cruel to me."

"Only because I love you."

She really needed to stop saying that word. It made him nervous.

"This is such a bad idea," he said aloud to the room at large, almost wishing there were witnesses to mark down his words. When things fell apart he wanted the world to know that he had been against this from the outset.

Sammy just smiled. "Rob, you obviously have no idea what's best for you."

He raised a brow in question. "And you do?"

"Yes," she said resolutely, kissing him firmly on the lips. "I'm what's best for you."

---


	16. To Believe Everything You Say, pt two

**Drenched**

**Summary**: House enjoys the company of a patient- obviously signaling the apocalypse, Wilson is getting a divorce, Chase is falling head over heels, Foreman's thinking of leaving the team and Cameron's sister has cancer. At least it's not raining. Yet.

**Disclaimer**: If I owned House I would be an infinitely cooler person than I actually am. The universe, however, knows better than to give me this title of cooldom, and as such, I am doomed to never possess a smidgen of this TV show of wonderment. Oh woe. House belongs to David Shore and Fox. "It Doesn't Get Much Better Than This" is Nicole Burdette's.

**Author's Note**: And here it be! We're almost to the end (seriously this time), folks. I'll be posting the epilogue within the next few days, and then the fic will be done!

Major kudos to **LastScorpion**, who was kind enough to save the writing majors within you all. (Some of the things I did… -sigh-) Worshiping of her glory shall commence immediately! -falls to floor and worships-

This story is cannon-compatible up to "Skin Deep." (Still ignoring cannon!)

Reviews/Reviewers are loved.

Thank you and enjoy!

---

**Chapter Eleven: I Want To Believe Everything You Say, Part Two**

_I want your strength in my soul  
And I want your soul in my eyes.  
I want to believe everything you say.  
And I do.  
And I want you to tell me what's best for me  
When I don't know.  
-Nicole Burdette_

---

There were two sides to the continuum of existence: the way things were and the way things could be. Most people got through their days by attempting to shift as many of these things closer to the 'could be' side as possible. They couldn't move everything, very rarely managed to get any of the aspects of their life to reach the perfect ideal, and more often than not gave up before pushing them even a fraction of that distance. Why should they spend their lives working towards an idyllic vision of the world they could never reach? Why torture themselves?

For Lisa Cuddy, the answer was because she was a control freak, too stubborn to settle for anything less.

Or at least these were her bitter thoughts as she resisted the urge to scream. She was currently in her office, surrounded by what felt like mountains of red tape, and in the midst of skipping lunch in order to get all of her work done properly and in a timely fashion.

She knew that most of the work in front of her didn't have to be done for another month, that estimations for budgets didn't have to be exact. But Lisa had come to the realization that she was a masochist, loving nothing more than to persecute herself, as made apparent by the headache that was currently pounding in her skull.

If she had the time to think about it, she would undoubtedly be disturbed by the fact that she couldn't remember the last time she hadn't had a headache.

Maybe she should listen to people when they told her that she was working too hard. Maybe she really did need a break, a small holiday. Maybe it was time to take that vacation she had been putting off for the last ten years. It wasn't as if she hadn't earned it, had been slacking for a decade or was trying to pull the rug out from under anyone. She just wanted a bit of a breather.

But Cuddy knew that any break would come back to haunt her later. That she would be incapable of relaxing, of setting her mind at ease, until everything was, as House had put it, just right.

She simply wasn't satisfied with anything less. Whereas most could justify these shortcomings, offer themselves reassurances and rationalizations for their acceptance of the imperfect, Cuddy was far less kind to herself. If something wasn't just right, if something went wrong or someone was needlessly harmed due to her carelessness, she would bare the brunt of the blame.

And she doubted she would be capable of carrying that sort of responsibility along with those she already shouldered.

Lisa, in her own mind, was accountable for reaching the ideals that she knew the world was capable of attaining, if only because no one else was willing to strive for them.

She didn't shirk this duty, didn't hide from it or attempt to force it on someone else, not that anyone would be willing to take it on. So few people were willing to attempt change anymore, to insist upon perfection when everything was demanding that they give in and settle for the mediocre. Should she abandon her task, if only for a few days, she had little doubt that everything she had spent so much of herself trying to build would be lost due to the carelessness of those who had long since given up 'the good fight'.

After all, most people stopped trying to reach that elusive 'could be' because of all the work it took to get there. A common misconception was that, when moving upon the continuum, various aspects of existence would stay in their given spots without the help of people to push them along. You'd move your project for an hour or so, go home, go to sleep, maybe take a few days off and then come back to the task later. People didn't understand that it was a constant battle. That when they stopped pushing, whatever aspect they had spend their time shifting would slowly slide back down the range, slowly reduce itself back to its original state without the hard and constant work of individuals to keep it in its place.

It would be a shame for Cuddy to watch everything she had created destroyed for a vacation.

No, Cuddy didn't want a break, not with all of the problems such a rest would entail.

It was just that sometimes, like now, when her head throbbed and her eyes ached from the effort of keeping them open, when she was lonely and had nothing but endless work to look forward to, she wished that someone else could take over for her, if only for a bit.

But then again, Cuddy knew that department bankruptcies got filed and logged a lot faster than wishes.

It would be best to plan her vacation times around this fact accordingly.

Giving her forehead one last rub, Cuddy turned back to her desk, grabbing the nearest pen with determination.

She wouldget this work done.

Or at least, she _would have_, had Gregory House, her limping nemesis, not backed his way in through her office doors, carting a large TV on wheels with him as he hobbled to a stop in front of her.

Cuddy stared blankly at him, more complex expressions lost to her due to the shock inspired by the unexpected interruption. "What are you doing?"

House hadn't even looked at her, and was currently behind the screen, fiddling with wires. From behind the large box he shouted, "Remember that hot night in Havana I swore never to speak of? Well, I taped it! Thought we could relive the memories."

She rolled her eyes, scowling from behind her desk. "House."

He let out an exasperated sigh, his head poking out above the television. "I'm providing us both with entertainment that is sorely lacking elsewhere." He promptly disappeared again. "Your oncologist is slacking in his extracurricular duties of keeping me occupied, so I thought it was high time I graced you with my presence."

Poor, hapless, Wilson. Cuddy could only imagine the House tolerance level the man had built up over the years. She both envied and pitied this skill. "I'm working," Cuddy muttered, purposely infusing irritation into her tone.

"You were working," House corrected happily, appearing once more and nodding in satisfaction. He snagged the remote off of the top of the device and limped to one of the room's chairs, dragging it closer to the TV. "Now you're watching General Hospital."

She blinked. General Hospital?

"I hope you know that you're not getting paid for this."

"Why not? It's what I'd be doing in the clinic anyway. Now I'm just being more obvious about it."

"Last time I checked, being obvious doesn't make the offense any more acceptable."

"And the acceptableness of an offense doesn't make me any less prone to committing it." House slouched into the chair, flicking on the TV and sending an obnoxious smile Cuddy's way. "I like this game."

Cuddy brought the hand back to her forehead, rubbing once more. The headache seemed to have grown exponentially with House's presence.

Unfortunately, she was quickly beginning to realize as he made himself comfortable, in _her_ office, House seemed as if he had no intention of leaving. Meaning that she had little hope of getting her work done.

When had she lost all of her authority over this man?

Oh, right. From the instant he had set foot in this hospital ten years before.

Flustered, annoyed and hoping that scolding the diagnostician would get him to leave, she asked in a clipped tone, "Where did you get the television?"

"The Oncology lounge."

"You stole a TV from Oncology?" Cuddy asked, incredulous. Out of all of the departments to harass, Oncology seemed to be the least deserving.

House nodded, eyes still locked onto the screen. "Wilson's being a moron, and thus his whole department must suffer." He shot her a glance when she made an annoyed noise. "Don't blame me, I'm just dolling out justice. Besides, it's not like I stole from Pediatrics."

Cuddy raised a brow. "Stealing from Oncologists is better?"

"Depending on how many bald people die daily." He shrugged. "It varies. Very complex system I've created. Now quiet."

With that he adjusted his shoulders, attention fully focused on the drama playing out before him. Not General Hospital, it seemed, but the soap that came on before it.

House shook his head sadly. "It just can't reach the same level of drama."

Cuddy simply blinked pointedly, stunned to silence. Did he honestly think that she was going to let him get away with this?

"How could I, as your boss, possibly allow you to skip out on clinic duty in order to watch television?"

"Take off your badge?"

She glared.

House sighed dramatically, leaning forward in his seat. "I know you watch it. You've quoted lines from this show one too many times for me not to notice. You probably tape the episodes and then go and watch them at home."

Her glare intensified. She hated the fact that House found her so predictable. And that he had managed to sniff out her guilty pleasure.

"Reward yourself, take a break from paperwork." He smirked. "Entertain me if only to keep me from terrorizing the hospital." He leaned back again. "Besides, I need some respite to gather strength to go attack Princess Fluff."

Cuddy frowned. "Cameron?" She really didn't understand his refusal to call people by their proper names. She was one step away from needing a House to English dictionary in order to understand him because of all of the needless subterfuge. "House, what have you got planned?"

She could have sworn his eyes adopted a mischievous glow. "I am going to meddle." A small, eager smile. "It will be awesome."

Cuddy did not envy Cameron.

She gave herself a firm shake. "As wonderful and noble as annoying Cameron may be, that doesn't mean that I'm going to let you stay in my office, waste both your time and mine, and ignore the responsibilities that I pay you to fulfill. Leave."

"Cuuudy," he whined.

Lisa marveled at the man's ability to revert back into a five year-old at will.

"I'm your boss, House. Not your friend." She felt it best to make that point painfully clear. Although she could, possibly, like the man, there was a large gap between being emotionally attached to someone and actually enjoying his company.

Of course, House had made this large gap into a cavernous black abyss, one that Cuddy was far from willing to attempt to bridge. The consequences of failure were much too severe to take such a risk.

House scoffed. "Well obviously not. What would that do to my reputation? Being buddies with 'The Man'?" He gave his head a firm shake, locking his gaze with hers for the first time, attempting to make his position apparent. "This isn't friendship. This is mutual exploitation. I have someone to watch General Hospital with and get to do it without fear of being ratted out."

Cuddy raised an eyebrow, unmoved. "And what do I get?" she asked dully.

House gave a wicked grin. "Gossip."

She stared blankly. "Gossip?"

House, it seemed, could sense her lack of enthusiasm for his offer.

"Come on Cuddy. You know you want in on some of the stuff that's happening around here."

"I don't think I've managed to sink to that level yet, no."

"Sure you have. You just haven't had the opportunity to revel in it properly." He moved to the edge of his seat, obviously eager. "For example, the reason I'm going to go talk to Cameron is because after she had a long chat with her brother, which I got wind of from Foreman of all people, she and Wilson began this lover's quarrel-"

Cuddy had been lost in the whirl of House's jabber until that interesting bit of information caught her attention.

"Wait," she said quickly, knowing she was selling a small piece of her soul as she furrowed her brow and asked, "Wilson and Cameron?"

"My." House made a _tut_ing noise. "You are behind the times."

The furrow deepened. "But I thought…?" She quickly realized there was no subtle way to phrase her query.

In for a penny…

She threw down her pen, leaning forward in her desk and staring intently at her diagnostician. "You like Cameron."

Cuddy could almost feel the hope of House ever viewing her as an individual of status and authority quickly wither and die.

Meanwhile, House blinked dumbly.

She sighed. "Fine, she liked you and you enjoyed ogling her while pretending you weren't interested."

House gave a satisfied nod. "Much better." A small pause. "Except I wasn't pretending."

Or he'd never admit that he had been.

She waved a dismissive hand, uninterested in any of his protests. "What happened?"

"Jimmy the Boy Wonder happened. Did the whole 'rescue mourning damsel' bit and Cameron had no chance."

"With you, House. With Cameron."

"You mean why have I stopped ogling her publicly?" He gave an exaggerated sigh. "It was tough, I'm not going to lie. I'm just trying to give my female coworkers more respect around the workplace. For instance, I haven't looked at your cleavage once since coming in here."

Cuddy scowled. "I'm wearing a turtleneck."

"And if you were wearing a low-cut blouse, my feat would be mighty impressive."

She knew he was trying to distract her with through sheer power of annoying. Normally, this underhanded tactic would have worked quite well, but House had made the unfortunate mistake of making Cuddy interested. She would not be deterred.

"You've been denying having any feelings towards her whatsoever for the past three years, and all the while everyone with half a skull knew better. Now you're going to try and shove her into Wilson's arms?" She examined him intently. "What changed?"

House's attention remained focused on the screen. "Nothing."

Cuddy sighed, unsurprised by the lackluster response but disappointed nonetheless. She was just reaching for her pen, prepared to kick him out of her office and get back to work, when she was stopped short.

"And that's the problem." His eyes remained locked to the screen as he picked up his cane, bouncing it against the ground rhythmically. "She's going to keep waiting for me to change and I'll keep refusing to do it." He turned to her, giving her a small smirk. "It's been fun, but three years of tormenting her with the possibility is getting a bit old. Time to set the little butterfly in her stomach free."

Cuddy frowned, worried.

He couldn't do this. Shouldn't. Cameron was still the only woman who could put up with him, was still the only one who had a chance of getting through all of the sarcasm and bitterness to salvage what was left of the man underneath. She was the only woman left who was naive enough to see what, who, House could be.

If House let Cameron go, who would be left to make sure the stubborn and limping miscreant reached some level of happiness?

"House-"

He gestured to the TV, cutting her off. "It's starting."

Her eyes remained firmly locked on his slumped frame. "House, I can't let you do this."

He turned away from the screen, bringing his gaze to hers.

They both knew she wasn't talking about the television.

"Yes, you can." There was a small, intense pause before he motioned to the screen once more, breaking whatever connection they had formed. "Stop playing mother hen for an hour and watch the damn show. "

Cuddy knew it was the closest thing she would ever get to an explanation.

"Despite whatever you may think, the world's not going to fall apart if you stop fluttering for sixty minutes."

Giving her temple one last, firm, rub, Cuddy let out a sigh. She opened a drawer and pulled out her hidden stash of licorice (another guilty pleasure) before rolling her chair out from behind her desk and bringing it next to House's. "I missed yesterday's episode," she muttered, slumping in her seat.

She needed a break anyway.

"What's happened?"

"Alexis is back in a coma," House said eagerly, clearly relishing this new development.

Cuddy gave an eye roll. "Of course she is." She pulled out a piece of licorice. "It's only been ten months since she was in a coma the last time. One would hope they would've had enough material to last a bit longer than that."

"Drama's just as good the second time around," House stated firmly.

Cuddy raised an eyebrow. "I thought you believed that recycling ideas sucked?"

"In medicine. In TV it's just good business." He peered over her shoulder. "Are those Red Vines?"

---

"The fact that you've become inseparable from the Delightful Duo has been really annoying, you know that, right?"

Cameron frowned, looking behind her to see House slouched in the door entry to Diagnostics, an irritated expression on his face.

"The Delightful Duo?"

"You know. The one with the pretty hair and his cap busting partner?"

She rolled her eyes. "I'm sorry?" she offered unconvincingly, bringing her attention back to carefully placing her laptop within its case. It was well after five, she had been productive all day, given her full attention to their latest patient and prevented House from causing havoc throughout the hospital, all the while she'd her very best not to think of Wilson.

If she thought about him, it meant she missed him.

And, as a direct result of this long day, she was now tired.

In her rational opinion, House had nothing to complain about.

Of course, House had a tendency to embrace and reject rationality depending on his mood at the given moment.

"We were working most of the time, if that's any comfort."

"It isn't," House said instantly.

And it appeared as if this was one of those many instances during which he chose to reject it. Splendid.

Always encouraging, having a boss so devoted to his practice.

He continued. "You lot suddenly playing the three musketeers has completely destroyed my divide and conquer strategy." He sent her an accusing glare. "I had to stay late just to aggravate you." A sigh. "Why is it that you've managed to turn my one joy into a chore?"

"The same reason you take such pleasure from aggravating me." She gave him a small smirk. "Just to torture you."

"I suspected as much." There was a small pause in which Cameron gathered the last of her things together before House bluntly asked, "Do you like me?"

She turned to face him and gave him an incredulous stare. "What?"

"Do you like me?"

"I'm not sure what-"

House gave an exaggerated sigh, interrupting. "Do you want to grow old together, pop out some kids and get a house with a white picket fence?"

She set down her bag, too shocked by the unexpected turn of the conversation to complete the motion of swinging it over her shoulder. "No."

"Why not?"

"Because I can't trust you," she responded immediately, almost regretting the words as she voiced them. It was a defeat, of a sort, to acknowledge her shaken faith in him. It was like admitting that he had won, that he had been right all along.

She sighed, forging ahead. "And you can't love someone you don't trust."

"Great." He quirked the corner of his mouth and jerked his thumb towards the hallway. "Now go tell Wilson that."

Cameron furrowed her brow as she eyed his sarcastic grin with suspicion. "Wilson?"

"You know. Guy with a pocket protector? Generally surrounded by a bunch of bald kids?"

She shook her head, folding her arms in front of her chest. "No."

House took a step closer. "No?" He scowled. "What do you mean 'no'?"

"Just what it sounds like."

"Why not?"

"It's none of your business, House," she said in a clipped tone as she backed up a fraction.

House did not get to be privy to these matters. Certainly not anymore.

"Your temperamental mood is upsetting the patients and annoying me. I have a right to know why."

"I don't have a temperamental mood and patients haven't been complaining, so no." She locked her eyes with his, resisting the urge to take another pace backwards. House was a very intimidating presence. "You don't."

House ignored her, waving a dismissive arm. "What's your reason for not falling into Wonder Boy's arms?" He kept his gaze level with hers, knowing the unsettling affect on her. House was not above using bullying to get his way. In fact, it was his specialty. "You obviously lied to him about me so that you could get off the hook."

Cameron's eyebrows raised thoughtfully, an internal light bulb bursting to life.

House was never this persistent in his queries. Never this direct. He was annoying, irritatingly playful and rude, but never this forceful.

He never cared this much.

"Why are you doing this?"

House seemed to notice in that instant that he given himself away and retreated, adopting a lazily bored expression as he stepped back. "Do I need a reason to bother you?"

"For something like this, yes." Cameron found herself unclenching her arms and striding forward. "It doesn't fit." She shook her head lightly. "You don't want to know just to know." She smirked. "You want to argue with me." This time House stepped back, coming to a rest next to the glass table, and she resisted the compulsion to smile in triumph. "You want to change my mind."

House brought his eyes down to his cane, grumbling a begrudging, "Yes."

The smile couldn't be contained any longer and she could all but feel her face light up. "Why?" she jabbed.

"Because idiocy irritates me," he snapped. "And you _are_ being an idiot."

"Because I'm doing what you've wanted me to all along?" she snapped back, no longer threatened. "Because I'm protecting myself instead of inviting pain with open arms?" She scoffed, folding her arms once more. "I'm not doing anything that you haven't done yourself, House."

He brought his eyes to hers again, tone stark and serious. "You don't want to be like me."

It was said in a way that could not be argued with, that she had no wish to argue with. And so Cameron found herself reduced to silence.

He let out a loud sigh, quickly destroying the serious atmosphere as he leaned against his cane in a dramatic, exasperated, manner. "Why is the one person you chose to protect yourself from Wilson?" He adopted a sarcastic tone. "Out of all the mean, evil, people in the world, he's probably the least threatening." He snorted. "The most traumatizing thing he could do is terrify the innocents with the sheer volume of his tie collection."

Cameron shook her head, irritated at the man's intentional thickness. "Wilson hurts people, badly, without realizing it."

He narrowed his eyes. "You're mad about him seeing Julie."

"No. Yes." She sighed, walking away from House, further into the room before turning back to him. "He could go back to her." She gave a bitter laugh, completely lacking in humor. "He could go to anyone, leave at any moment, off to go help someone, save someone, and I couldn't stop him."

"You could," House said cruelly. "But you wouldn't."

"No, I wouldn't." She stared at him pointedly. "I know how fruitless it is to want someone who will never want you back."

There was a moment of tense silence, unspoken accusations making the room feel heavy. This was a chance to clear the air between them, to bring all skeletons out of the closet and dispose of their remains, to start anew, begin fresh. Revive something that all assumed had been dead for well over a year.

But it, like many of the moments between the two, passed them by. Became just another opportunity wasted in their long history of encounters.

The only difference being that, this time, Cameron didn't find herself aching at the loss.

There was distance between them now, with him leaning against the Diagnostics table while she stood across from him, the whiteboard brushing at her elbow. She felt safer, this way. Less like an errant child about to be punished by a strict parent and more like a respected adult. Like an equal.

House made an irritated noise. "You're both morons," he pointed an accusing finger, "but you're doing it on purpose. At least Wilson's suspicions are mildly justified."

Cameron simply raised an eyebrow. "What?"

"Do you honestly think that Wilson would ever go back to that woman?"

She opened her mouth to respond.

"The woman who aborted his child?"

She winced at the reminder of what Julie had done. It was easy to forget, with Wilson so skilled at hiding the affect it had on him. It was easy to forget its significance.

House sent her a disbelieving, serious, look. "Even Jimmy isn't that forgiving."

"I know." Cameron sighed. "I know he won't go back to Julie." She shook her head. "But it's not just her, House. You know that. You know how he is, how eager he is to help people, how quickly he'll jump to make their lives better, in whatever way he can."

"Yes, he's compassionate to the point of stupidity, Pot," he said while staring at her pointedly.

She felt her cheeks going red.

"But he's not twenty-five anymore. He's learned how to keep Wilson Junior in his pants and his intentions relatively pure, insomuch as any fully functional male can. What more can you ask from the man?" He stopped playing with his cane. "Do you think he's still that dense? That unaware of the consequences of his actions? That he has enough raging hormones left to reduce him to that special sort of idiot? " He sent her an accusing look. "You're a lot dumber than I though if you believe for an instant that Wilson doesn't agonize over every person he's ever wronged." He gave an exasperated sigh. "Looks like I'm going to have to reevaluate my application process."

Cameron locked her gaze to her feet, ashamed.

House leaned forward, voice condescending. "See, had you been just a bit smarter at interpreting your data, you would have asked yourself one vital question."

She glanced up, confused.

"Why is Wilson my," he adopted a overly sappy tone, "best bud forever?"

Cameron scowled. "It's always about you, isn't it?"

"Was there ever a doubt in your mind?" He did his best rendition of a charming smile and then gave his head a dismissive shake. "Now stop distracting me and think like I hired you to."

"You didn't hire me to indulge your compulsion to dig, unnecessarily, into the lives of your coworkers," Cameron muttered.

"That's what you think." He smirked before returning to his original query. "Who else would have put up with me for all this time? We both know that I'm no picnic. Any other, sane and healthy, person would have left me in a gutter to die of liver failure years ago. Why do you think he's stuck around? Because I'm just that charming?" He shook his head. "It's because he makes, demands, himself to stay, even when he'd like nothing more than to beat me to death with my cane. And all of it because he thinks of it as paying his penance."

"Penance to you?" she asked sarcastically.

"To everyone." He stared intently. "To the wives he cheated on and the one he ignored. To his brother for failing him, his parents for not being the Saint they thought he was. To every patient that dies, every member of each family he lets down. For the loss of my rosy complexion when he made me detox, for not protecting you lot from my temper. Jimmy, as the self-sacrificing type, has to make people happy or else he's personally responsible."

"That's-"

"Stupid," House supplied. "I know." He shook his head. "Some people pass it off as noble, but none of them have watched a man give his whole life away to people who don't appreciate it."

He paused, daring her to speak.

And for an instant, she wanted to. Wanted to bite out a cruel, _To people like you, House?_

But Cameron wasn't like him. Wasn't unkind just to get a reaction, to watch a person squirm.

She wouldn't be.

After a moment, he continued. "That's why he cares so much, about everyone, why he gives so much of himself away." House let out a sigh. "And if he wanted to keep anything so he could have something of his own, he would." He grumbled. "But the idiot of an oncologist has stopped wanting things for himself, has stopped believing that he deserves anything that he actually desires because he's a brainless twit when it comes to keeping himself in a reasonable condition. Nine times out of ten the things he does are done to help someone else, the things he craves for are always on another person's behalf. And that sacrifice makes our moronic Saint happy." He allowed a significant pause. "Except for every now and then, when there's something that, despite it all, he doesn't want to give up." He bounced his cane. "Like his kid." A glance at Cameron. "Like you." He maintained the look. "You're the one thing, person, I've seen Wilson want for himself in a very long time."

Her gaze remained steadily locked to her feet. She wouldn't fool herself again, wouldn't let Wilson's flaws, his need, blind her.

"But," House sighed, bouncing his cane once more. "I wouldn't have hired you if you were a complete idiot, which means you already knew all of that."

Cameron's head jerked up.

"And since you're fully aware of all of the special effects of the James Wilson freak-show, you can't be dim enough to truly believe that he would cheat on you," he gave a small eye roll, "_emotionally _or otherwise." He smirked, crossing his hands over his chest smugly. "You're lying to yourself."

Cameron shook her head adamantly. Didn't he see? This was the first time she had been completely honest with herself in years.

"House, just stop. This isn't getting you anywhere! I'm not going to change my mind after you chronicling all of Wilson's problems. I've made my decision." She took in a large breath. "And although I like him," she allowed herself a small, pained, smile, "really like him, in spite of how messed up he is-"

"But he's not," House interrupted smoothly, his head tilted with a contemplative expression on his face.

She blinked. "Were you just listening to yourself?"

"Wilson's a pretty loose screw, but he's still functional. If he's damaged it's in a way that's useful and therefore accepted by society." He stared pointedly. "And he doesn't hurt people carelessly, like you want to believe he does to make your running for the hills justified."

Cameron glared.

"Ultimately, he's getting on just fine, if you call what he has just fine. He doesn't need you in that parasitic way you're used to." The intensity of his gaze forced her to raise her eyes to his. "But you need him." He shrugged. "Or at least you have, and that's a role reversal you just aren't prepared to take." He nodded, a smug, patronizing smile on his face. "That's why you avoided Wilson like the plague when your brother-"

Cameron gaped, raising a finger.

"Yes," he muttered, annoyed at the interruption, "I know about your sibling's quarrel too- talked to you. A woman who thinks that her man's going to cheat on her watches him like a hawk, she doesn't exile him." He eyed her critically. "And it's also why the call from Julie put you into such a tizzy. Because you don't want to be like her, pathetic, clingy and desperate, and that's who you see yourself becoming."

She recognized the sharp sting of truth to his words, a recognition that she tried to dismiss instantly.

She raised an eyebrow. "So, according to you, I don't want to be in a relationship with Wilson because I need him?"

House gave his head a firm shake. "No." He pushed himself up off of the table, placing his cane on the ground before him and looking at her gravely. "You don't want to be with Wilson because you don't think he needs you back."

And it was in that instant that Allison Cameron realized what a spectacular fool she had been.

"Which is funny, really," House rambled on, oblivious, squinting towards the ceiling. "Since the only reason he doesn't want to be in a relationship with you is because he thinks you don't _love _him back." He sighed in mock annoyance. "What neither of you seem realize that love is the greatest and most pathetic of all needs. Congratulations," he said sarcastically. "If you both stopped moping and started thinking, you'd realize that," he took on a sickeningly sweet tone, "_you're meant for each other_."

She needed him.

She had wanted to push him away, had tried so hard not to cling to him, to depend on him, because by that point she had already needed him so much that the intensity of it was almost paralyzing.

Allison wasn't used to being the one that had to be fixed, and the change was frightening, made her more vulnerable than she had ever been before. She fell to pieces, relying entirely on Wilson being there to pick her up and put her back together without any guarantee that he would do so. And the uncertainty petrified her.

Wilson didn't need her the way she needed him, and, knowing that he could leave at any moment, she had closed her eyes to the truth and left first.

She had run away when she should have stayed, and now there was no going back.

Unless House was right.

Unless Jim did need her.

"Cameron."

She looked up, startled out of her thoughts.

"Why are you still here?" He jerked his thumb towards the door. "He's heading out to his car." He made a shooing gesture with his hands. "Go forth and turn on the sap." He smirked. "Wilson's a sucker for that stuff."

She stared blankly for a second, but just a second, before setting in motion, nearly tripping on her bag as she bolted out of the room.

She heard House yelling, "I expect some sort of financial compensation for all of this emotional turmoil I'm subjecting myself to!" after her down the hall.

---

Wilson, suitcase in hand, thin jacket on, resisted the urge to glare upwards from his position directly outside of the hospital, eyeing the large parking lot with a growing sense of dread.

He had parked outside that day.

And now it was raining.

He seemed to have a knack for picking the wrong days to leave his car a solid sixty feet away from shelter of any kind. And this time he didn't even want to drink himself to oblivion, just sleep. Was that really too much to ask?

Giving in, feeling as if he had earned it, Wilson scowled at the storm currently raging above him.

God was sadistic.

Perhaps a bold statement, but Wilson thought it was applicable in his current situation.

It had been a long week. If Wilson was perfectly honest, it had been a long two weeks, a long ten months, a long thirty-eight years.

He was ready to rest.

However, being ready to rest didn't necessarily mean that he would be able to do so, especially with a vengeful deity and a friend as obnoxious and spiteful as House.

Obviously annoyed at Wilson's outburst of self-defense the day before, the diagnostician had sent him on a scavenger hunt for his keys, gleefully informing Wilson at five that he had granted him the pleasure of hiding them to provide the oncologist with long-denied entertainment.

House only wanted to cheer him up, of course.

Goody.

Forty-five minutes later, Wilson had finally tracked them down to the nurse's station, where Brenda handed him his key-ring with an annoyed look on her face, quickly shooing him out of the lobby as she directed the next patient to the waiting room.

Mission accomplished, Wilson had trekked his way back to the elevator, scaling up the building to his office and grabbing his suitcase before returning to the lift so he could finally go home.

To his cold, bare home where he could collapse and sleep for a few hours, a few decades, before making his way back here once more, to start the cycle anew. It wasn't much, but Wilson wasn't exactly in a state to complain. He couldn't afford to be picky.

It took far more effort than it should have to remind himself of that.

Wilson had two things that worked for him. His third marriage had ended; he still had no kids and Cameron…. Well. That had been a mistake.

There was just his stupid screwed up friendship and his job.

And neither of them seemed to be enough for him any more.

They had been, at one point. Back when he was younger and had still been getting over Sara. When he had married Elise in a loveless union, when he helped House through infarction and Stacy's leaving. When he still had hope that there was a cure and that he could ease pain until it was found, when he married Julie out of obligation. When he fooled House into detoxing in hopes that it would change his friend, when he gave up his job to protect him. When Stacy came and left once more, and he forced House to detox again, and for the last time.

Then his friendship and job had been enough to get him through his day. The satisfaction and joy he had derived from each had been more than sufficient, had been strong enough motivations to get up every morning, to go through the tiresome but necessary necessities of everyday life. Lord knew House had moaned, complained and ditched enough of his obligations for the both of them.

But when he had met Julie for dinner two nights after Cameron left (because he felt sorry for her and he knew that she had needed it), he could feel his insides churning. Even when she had started to cry, started to apologize for aborting the baby, he couldn't quite summon up the sympathy he knew he should have felt. He became incapable of pretending to be moved by her pleas, of pretending to be unaffected by what she had done. He couldn't function the way he knew he should have, the way he was supposed to, because what he had was no longer enough to prompt him into doing so.

And he knew that, somehow, it was all Cameron's fault.

He didn't hold it against her. How could he? During times of great personal strife and suffering, Wilson, out of all people, was perfectly aware of how someone could become confused. How grief and uncertainty could make them believe they wanted something they didn't, make them say things they didn't believe. Desperate feelings called for desperate acts, and with grief hanging over her like a cloud, Allison Cameron had been nothing if not desperate.

Guiltily, Wilson admitted that desperation called to him. It was a hard force for him to deny, for him to pass by without pause, without interest and concern. Really, he was just as much to blame as Cameron for what had occurred between the two of them. He should have known better than to give in, than to clutch at some foolish notion that, perhaps, what had happened had been spurred on by something other than desperation.

But he hadn't known better, not when it really mattered. Instead he had allowed himself to be drawn to her like a fool, knowing perfectly well that she still loved her boss and that he was a temporary placebo to her hurt. Want, once again, had clouded his judgment.

Ultimately, Wilson was forced to agree with House.

He was a moron. A moron who had momentarily given in to an age old vice and, as such, was now being punished by an angry God for it.

Because, perhaps for the first time, Wilson truly and deeply cared for her. More than the mundane caring that he was prone to handing out without thought or discretion, but the real sort that he found himself incapable of shaking, despite every iota of common sense and decency he had screaming for him to do so.

Something in him didn't want to give her up, couldn't quite imagine an existence without her in it.

Not to say that he couldn't manage without her. He could, of course, and he would because he had to (for her and House's sake). But that didn't change how he felt about her, despite how much he wished that it did.

Now, because of her, he couldn't pretend anymore. Couldn't sit and have a pleasant meal with the woman who had aborted his child, couldn't quite keep the truth away from House, and couldn't be as unaffected, content and aloof as he had everyone believing he was.

He couldn't pretend anymore, because for a while she had made it so he didn't have to.

That, at least, was all Cameron's fault.

Wilson sighed, looking back across the expanse of concrete in front of him.

As for the icing on the cake he had baked himself in a fit of idiocy, the powers that be had blessed him with rain and a very large, very wet, parking lot to cross.

He knew God was laughing manically somewhere.

Squaring his shoulders and hunching over, Wilson let out a resigned huff of air before setting out at a fast jog.

He was about halfway across the lot when he heard a faint voice behind him, accompanied by the sound of heels smacking against cement.

"Wilson!" There was a small, barely noticeable, pause. "James!"

He stopped in his tracks, recognizing the voice instantly.

He would know that voice anywhere.

He turned hesitantly. "Cameron?" She came to a halt a few feet in front of him, and upon seeing her Wilson gave a severe frown. "What are you doing?" She was wearing a thin long-sleeved red shirt, slacks and high-heels.

Wilson promptly determined the woman had no sense whatsoever.

"Where's your jacket?"

She panted slightly, pushing her hair out of her eyes that was now plastered to her face from the rain. "Inside."

He continued to give her a disapproving look.

She sent him a glare. "None of that." She gestured to his, now completely soaked, clothes. "You aren't exactly the epitome of practicality either."

He glanced down, taking in his own appearance, noting the water he could feel dripping from his nose and the decidedly squishy feeling of his socks.

She had a point.

Cameron shivered, bringing her arms around her waist. "Jesus, it's cold out here."

Wilson gave a rueful grin. "That can happen in the middle of a rain storm."

"This really did seem like a good idea at the time, you know," she muttered, huddling in on herself and looking at the sky in annoyance.

He stared at her, smiling. "It always does."

And then life threw in things like death, unrequited love and rainstorms.

Wilson felt the grin fading from his face.

He gave his neck a rub before hefting his now useless jacket higher on his shoulders. "Go back in, Cameron."

She removed her gaze from the storm and brought it to him, startled.

"You don't want to get sick." He gave her the most reassuring smile he could manage and then turned back to his car.

"Jim, wait."

She grabbed his elbow and forced him to stop, to look at her. With her big blue-green eyes and that combination of determination and vulnerability that undid him every time.

"I'm sorry."

But not this time. Not again.

"Accepted." He jerked his head back to the hospital, gently pulling his arm away. "Now go inside."

He saw the pained expression on her face, the way her body seemed to fall at the words, how a little light seemed to leave her eyes just before he began to walk away.

And he thought with a sorrowful certainty that he had finally killed whatever they might have shared. That now that he had done the right thing she would go back inside, go to House and the world would return to the way that it should have been all along.

So his surprise was immense when he heard Allison's shoes following him across the lot.

"That's it?"

He frowned at her almost angry tone, glancing behind him and slowing his pace as she caught up.

"You gave an apology, I forgave you. What else is there?"

"I lied," she stated bluntly, giving him an earnest look. "About wanting something else," a small pause, "about House."

Wilson halted, looking at her intently, noting the small blush of shame across her cheeks, the way she couldn't look at him when she said it.

In that instant Wilson envisioned all of the ways in which he could torture the meddling, limping, twerp.

"He harassed you, didn't he?"

Allison's eyes widened innocently as she instantly replied, "No."

Wilson glared.

"Well, okay, yes, but he was right."

He scratched at his neck and muttered, "He can manipulate anyone into thinking he's right, but that doesn't mean it's true." He ran the hand through his dripping hair, glancing towards House's balcony and preparing a mental catalogue as to how, exactly, he was going to kill his friend. "I'll talk to him, try to make him stop-"

"I don't want him to stop, Jim."

Wilson glanced at her, simply raising an eyebrow.

"Well, at least not when he's making sense," she amended quickly.

"It's not exactly reassuring to note that his 'making sense' caused you to do this." He indicated her shivering, soaked form.

"That's my fault, not his."

Wilson sighed, giving up. He was pretty certain House would always be a meddling jerk, even beyond the grave. On reflection, with this in mind, going through all the effort of plotting his murder seemed rather pointless.

Besides, Cameron had obviously been thoroughly convinced by what the hobbling jerk had told her, and nothing Wilson said or did would be able to change that.

He shrugged and started for his car again. "Okay."

She followed him, exasperated. "Jim, I'm trying to talk to you!"

"I know you are," Wilson said, not slowing his pace. "I just don't think there's much we can say."

He told himself that he wasn't running away. He was walking away. Walking quickly away, yes, but it was raining. It wasn't as if he didn't have just cause, wasn't like he didn't want to hear her, to believe her again.

It was just that his socks were soggy.

"Haven't you been listening?" Her tone was frustrated, the length of her step increasing as she tried to catch up to him. "I never wanted House. I lied."

"Or he made you think you did," Wilson responded quickly, shaking his head. "That man's far too crafty for everyone's good."

Suddenly she stepped in front of him, almost gasping from the effort of doing so, but still intimidating, beautiful, as she pinned him to the spot with nothing more than her small, shivering frame.

It wasn't fair, how she could do this to him.

"Why are you so convinced that I don't know how I feel?"

Wilson eyed her seriously. "In my situation, given everything, can you really blame me?"

She had the grace to look ashamed at that, lowering her eyes to the ground.

He kneaded the skin bellow his ear, mourning internally.

He didn't want to do this, didn't want to let her, _make_ her, go.

But he had to.

He would not deceive himself again. Wouldn't take her away from a man who needed her much more than he did again.

"Cameron, we tried, but if you hadn't had doubts, of any kind, you wouldn't have needed to leave." He smiled as best he could. "Go back inside. Be with the person who will make you happy."

Allison made a loud, dramatic and slightly frightening sound of frustration. "James! You are the most infuriating-!"

Wilson raised an eyebrow innocently in confusion, attempting not to be amused by her irritation.

At a loss for words, she reached forward and grabbed the lapels of his jacket, pulling him towards her and firmly locking her lips onto his, rainwater mixing with her taste on his tongue.

All in all, Wilson didn't quite know what to make of that, as much as he might have enjoyed it, meaning that when she broke away from him, he was left dumbfounded and mute.

Likely, exactly what she had intended.

She released his jacket. "You make me happy." She was still standing close to him, mere inches away, and he could feel her shiver. "You're that person." She brought her eyes to his. "_You_."

It was almost enough to make Wilson forget his misgivings, almost enough to make him reach out to her, to try and express how desperately he had missed her, how empty he had been without her.

But Wilson had been tricked by that kiss before.

"Then why did you leave?"

Allison stepped away, wrapping her arms around herself. "Because-" She halted, uncertain. "Because you made me need you." She sighed. "I couldn't function without you. Couldn't imagine a life where you'd leave me." She looked up at him. "And that scared me. I don't want to be that person. The dependent one, the needy one. I didn't want to be the one who took everything and gave nothing back."

Wilson couldn't stop a small smirk from forming on his face. "I don't think you're mentally or psychologically capable being that person."

She laughed. "Neither did I." She became serious once more. "But with you I am."

And Wilson wanted to tell her what she did to him. Wanted her to understand how selfish she made him, how blind to everything else, all problems and obligations. He wanted her to know that he hadn't been able to think about anything except her for weeks, months. That being near her made it so hard for him to remember all of the reasons why he shouldn't have her.

He wanted to tell her that she made him forget that he didn't deserve her.

But he didn't, he couldn't.

Not yet.

Instead he held himself back and eyed her skeptically, asking, "What's different now?" Asking, _Will you stay?_

She smiled gently. "I've stopped being afraid, opened my eyes and seen what I've been missing."

"What's that?"

She came closer, blinking away rain from her eyes and looking at him sincerely. "You love me."

It wasn't meant to be a question, but Wilson felt compelled to respond.

"Yes."

He hadn't known it, until just then. 'Love' wasn't a word he used often, knowing that some of its significance was lost, coming from his lips. Love, to a man like him, meant next to nothing, held no value, no weight. Or at least that's what he had thought.

It was in that instant that Wilson realized that he had never experienced this kind of love before.

"And I love you too, Jimmy." She came even closer, carefully brushing away the hair on his forehead that was getting into his eyes. "And I know you don't believe it, not yet." She took a minuscule step back, her eyes large, blue, green and gray, pleading and demanding that he give in to her request. "But please, let me prove it. Give me another chance to get this right."

Of course, that was the problem. He did believe her. He believed everything she said. He had no choice, when she looked at him like that.

Sara had told him once that love wasn't supposed to need convincing. That it happened naturally, that there came a time when the emotion was just known. Not manufactured, crafted or designed, but felt.

For the first time, James felt it.

Seized by impulse, he eliminated the space between himself and Allison and kissed her, bringing one hand to the small of her back while her arms quickly entwined around his neck, a satisfied hum coming from her throat.

So it was in a parking lot, in the middle of a storm, drenched head to toe (with soggy socks to boot), suitcase still dumbly clenched in one hand while the other was wrapped firmly around Allison's waist, that James Edward Wilson felt the sort of love he had long since ceased to believe he would ever again be allowed to feel.

He broke away briefly, kissing her forehead, hugging the gorgeous, kind and spectacular woman in his arms closer to him.

He just needed a few seconds to reassure himself that she was actually there, that she had no intention of leaving.

He knew this could be a mistake. That they both had doubts and insecurities, faults and points of annoyance, that any or all of these things could come back to destroy them later.

But he also loved her.

And he couldn't let go of that feeling. Not if she might stay. It was far too precious.

From the way her head rested against his and how her hands were firmly situation on his chest, he had the courage to hope that she just might.

Satisfied after a few moments, he brought his mouth to her ear, grinning as he said, "I hope you know that you're going to have to watch a ridiculous number of Hitchcock movies to make this up to me."

He felt her smile against his cheek.


	17. And

**Drenched**

**Summary**: House enjoys the company of a patient- obviously signaling the apocalypse, Wilson is getting a divorce, Chase is falling head over heels, Foreman's thinking of leaving the team and Cameron's sister has cancer. At least it's not raining. Yet.

**Disclaimer**: Not mine. Although I do have a cutting wit! That has to count for something, right? House belongs to David Shore and Fox. "It Doesn't Get Much Better Than This" is Nicole Burdette's.

**Author's Note**: Done! This will make a bit more sense if you've read "Her Name Was." If you haven't read that… Sorry for the randomness of it.

First, I'd like to thank all of you who took the time to review. You guys have no idea how much your support motivated me to keep writing this thing (for almost a year!).

On that note, I want to give special thanks to **Acerbus Canis**,** Angelfirenze**,** March Hare**,**Teenwitch**,** iscariot**,** ms. imagine**,** phineyj**,** Cap'n Meg**,** SilverMoonShining**,** CalliopeMused**,** Tears of Melpomene**, **kristendotcom**,** sammayx23**, and **Beth-TauriChick**. Their critical, consistent and encouraging reviews kept me writing this beast!

And, of course, the largest thanks must go to **LastScorpion**, who has managed to save me from myself and keep my madness in check. She's brilliant everyone. Brilliant!

This story is cannon-compatible up to "Skin Deep."

Reviews/Reviewers are loved, very very much. -nudge-

Thank you and enjoy!

---

**Epilogue: And…**

_And when you're lost I want to find you.  
And when you're weary  
I want to give you steeples,  
And cathedral thoughts,  
And coliseum dreams._

---

Her name was Allison, and she wasn't perfect, although Wilson wouldn't have believed it if someone told him so. She was stunning, possessing a classic and elegant beauty that she was almost resentful of. Slim and graceful, with brown hair and blue-green eyes that he could never quite tell the color of, she was widely known as a kind, generous soul who dedicated herself entirely to her work and the people she loved.

Theirs was an uneventful meeting, nothing more than the sharing of a brisk handshake at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital the day she joined House's Diagnostic team as his second fellow. By that time Wilson had managed to establish himself as a competent doctor, developed the reputation of being an excellent Head of Oncology, had just entered into his third marriage, and had little time to devote himself to forming a friendship with the latest of House's long line of lackeys, one who was just as likely to be gone in a week as she was to remain.

Much to his surprise, she did remain, and as the years passed they slowly began to know each other on the superficial levels required for acquaintanceship. She was dedicated and hard working with an honorable set of morals that she wouldn't allow House to take away from her, and that was enough for Allison to gain his respect and admiration, if not his interest. She was a friendly stranger to him, and although he liked her well enough, there was little cause for him to take any great notice of her. Until, almost all at once, things changed.

Through a series of events that neither suspected would bring them together, they saved each other in the small, unspectacular ways that really mattered. The kind that involve drunken staggering down hallways and crying sessions on bathroom floors.

When the fiasco was all through, they found themselves inexplicably and unavoidably intertwined, a situation that, by the end of their long unexpected association, neither was unhappy with. They cared for each other deeply. Far more deeply than Wilson thought himself capable of, and with more intensity than any sensation he had felt before. He had come to find that he loved Allison in every sense possible for a man to care for another being, but even so, it wasn't always perfect.

Some days, early on, he couldn't help but doubt her when she said she loved him, and she couldn't quite believe him when he said he wouldn't leave, and the would fight for hours, days. Both would become moody and taciturn, retreating in on themselves, frightening those around them when they lost the warmth that characterized them both.

But those times were rare and short-lived, neither capable of sustaining the hostility for long without serious, detrimental, effects to their psyches. Before long someone would apologize, someone would be forgiven and they would move on, leaving all doubt and suspicion behind.

When not in the middle of an argument, they would meet in the cafeteria everyday at noon and she would call him "Wilson" as the talked and laughed about colleagues and patients, recipes and paint colors, hidden talents and middle names.

When annoyed, she would call him "James" as she insisted he stopped being stubborn, chasing him throughout the small apartment when he turned off the TV and stole the remote control after the third hour of watching nothing but her favorite television show.

And then he would apologize and do something to make her smile, and she would call him "Jimmy" when she gave in and hugged him, forgiving everything.

And when her family came to visit on weekends, often times with stragglers like Greg, Eric and, eventually, Lisa, she would call him "Jim" as she begged him not to listen to Mark's outlandish family stories, to turn a blind eye when Rob and Sammy disappeared for hours at a time, to humor Matt as he detailed his latest science project.

And he would call her Allison. At work and home, when angry, sad or overjoyed. He loved the sound of her name on his lips just like he loved the rest of her. Reverently and unabashedly, without shame or hesitation. Nothing would keep him from uttering it as often as he could, not after it had taken him so long to feel as if he had the right to say it.

She was finally his to love, and he was hers.

After 3 years, 7 months and 4 days of a disconnected friendship, 10 of the most grueling, painful, wonderful months he had ever experienced and a lifetime of uncertainty, she stayed.

---

_I want to drag you from the darkness  
And kneel with you exhausted  
By the blinding light blaring on us.  
And…  
-Nicole Burdette_


End file.
